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THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY  PRESS 
8  ARLINGTON  STREET,  BOSTON  (17) 


"WE  COME" 
The  Spirit  of  '17 


ATLANTIC  PROSE 

AND 

POETRY 


For  Junior  High  Schools  and 
Upper  Grammar  Grades 


SELECTED  AND  EDITED 

BY 

CHARLES  SWAIN  THOMAS,  A.M. 

Lecturer  on  the  Teaching  of  English,  Harvard  University 
Formerly  Director  of  English  in  the  High  Schools  of  Cleveland,  Ohio 

AND 

H.  G.  PAUL,  Ph.D. 

Professor  of  English  in  the  University  of  Illinois 


I 


THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY  PRESS 

BOSTON 


1437t).5 


Copyright,  1919,  by 
THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY  PRESS,  INC. 

FIRST  IMPRESSION,  JULY,  1919 
SECOND  IMPRESSION,  AUGUST,  1920 
THIRD  IMPRESSION,  SEPTEMBER,  1920 
FOURTH  IMPRESSION,  SEPTEMBER,   1921 
FIFTH  IMPRESSION,  SEPTEMBER,   1921 
SIXTH  IMPRESSION,  NOVEMBER,  1921 


5"  3 


k  THE  grateful  acknowledgements  of  the  publishers  are  due  to 
Houghton  Mifflin  Company,  authorized  publishers  of  the 
works  of  Mary  Antin,  Katherine  Mayo,  John  Muir,  and 
Dallas  Lore  Sharp,  for  permission  to  include  certain  selec 
tions  from  the  works  of  those  authors,  and  for  their  further 
permission  to  print  a  chapter  from  the  Autobiography  of 
Professor  Shaler;  to  Messrs.  Harper  and  Brothers,  the  Estate 

>    of  the  late  Samuel  L.  Clemens,  and  the  Mark  Twain  Company, 

^  for  permission  to  reprint  selections  from  the  works  of  Mark 
Twain;  and  to  Willis  Boyd  Allen,  John  Kendrick  Bangs, 

^  Mrs.  William  Wilfred  Campbell  (in  respect  of  the  poems  of 
her  late  husband),  Bliss  Carman,  Sarah  N.  Cleghorn,  Grace 
Hazard  Conkling,  Florence  Gilmore,  M.  A.  DeWolfe  Howe, 
Laura  Spencer  Portor  Pope,  Arthur  Ketchum,  Lily  Long, 

J^  Elsie  Singmaster  Lewars,  and  Mary  Herrick  Smith. 


CONTENTS 


FOREWORD 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  '17   . 

A  LITERARY  NIGHTMARE 

PERE    ANTOINE'S    DATE- 
PALM      .... 
IEC  YEATON'S  SON 

A  CANADIAN  FOLK-SONG 

THE  CHILDREN'S  CITIES 

THE    PLUNGE    INTO    THE 
WILDERNESS     . 

THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY 

A  DAKOTA  BLIZZARD     . 

MY  REAL  ESTATE    . 

MY  CHILDREN    . 

A  STRUGGLE  FOR  LIFE  . 

IPSWICH  BAR 

THE  WILD  MOTHER 

AN  ORDER  FOR  A  PICTURE 

ACCORDING  TO  CODE 

A  LITTLE  MOTHER 

MY  BABES  IN  THE  WOOD 

MIANTOWONA     . 

OLD  TIMES  ON  THE  MIS 
SISSIPPI  .... 

THE  BIRD  WITH  THE 
BROKEN  PIXION 


Mary  Herrick  Smith  . 
Mark  Twain  . 


Xlll 

1 

5 


Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich   .  12 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich   .  19 

William  Wilfred  Campbell  21 

Elizabeth  S.  Sheppard     .  22 

John  Muir      ....  33 

Francis  Miles  Finch  .      .  45 

The  Contributors'  Club    .  47 

The  Contributors'  Club    .  51 

Josiah  Gilbert  Holland    .  54 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich   .  57 

Esther  and  Brainard  Bates  71 

Dallas  Lore  Sharp      .      .  75 

Alice  Gary       ....  81 

Katherine  Mayo   ...  85 

Florence  Gilmore        .      .  95 

The  Contributors'  Club    .  102 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich   .  108 

Mark  Twain  .      .      .      .  116 

The  Contributors'  Club  134 


Vlll 


CONTENTS 


THE  SAILING  OF  KING 
OLAF      .... 
THE  ROMANCE  OF  A  ROSE 
THE  AMERICAN  MIRACLE 
How  I  KILLED  A  BEAR 
How  GLOOSKAP  BROUGHT 

THE  SUMMER     . 
THE  BLUE-JAY   . 
A  YOUNG  DESPERADO  . 
A  GROUP  OF  CHRISTMAS 
POEMS 

At  the  Manger     . 

The  Little  Christ 

At  Chrystemesse-Tide 
PARABLES  IN  MOTORS  . 
SCHOOL  CHILDREN  OF 

FRANCE. 

THE  DESERTED  PASTURE 
IN  THE  TRENCHES    . 
THE  LAME  PRIEST   . 
FIRE  OF  APPLE-WOOD  . 
SUMMER  DIED  LAST  NIGHT 
UNAWARES    .... 
SAINT  R.  L.  S.    .      .      . 
THE  YELLOW  BOWL 
OUT  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 
THE      SCHOOLMA'AM     OF 

SQUAW  PEAK    . 
A  GROUP  OF  SEASON  POEMS 

Candlemas 

An  April  Morning 


Alice  Williams  Brotherton  138 

Nora  Perry      ....  142 

Mary  Antin    .      .      .      .  145 

Charles  Dudley  Warner  .  153 

Frances  L.  Mace  .      .      .  163 

Olive  Thorne  Miller   .      .  170 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich   .  180 


John  B.  Tabb       .      .      .  189 

Laura  Spencer  Portor      .  189 

Willis  Boyd  Allen      .      .  190 

The  Contributors'  Club    .  191 

Octave  Forsant     .      .      .194 

Bliss  Carman       .      .      .  208 

F.  Whitmore   .      .      .      .  211 

S.  Carlton       ....  213 

M.  A.  DeWolfe  Howe      .  234 

Maude  Caldwell  Perry     .  236 

Alice  Williams  Brotherton  237 

Sarah  N.  Cleghorn     .      .  238 

Lily  A.  Long  ....  240 

John  Muir      ....  241 

Laura  Tilden  Kent  256 


Arthur  Ketchum 
Bliss  Carman 


266 
266 


CONTENTS 


IX 


A  GROUP  OF  SEASON  POEMS 

(continued} 
April's  Return 
A  Day  in  June 
Autumn     .... 
JONAS  AND  MATILDA     . 
THE  SCHOOLDAYS  OF  AN 

INDIAN  '  GIRL    . 
CURBSTONE  THEATRICALS 
THE  WORD    .     . 
PAN  THE  FALLEN     . 
LOVE  is  ALWAYS  HERE 
THE  CHIMES  OF  TERMONDE 
A  PUPIL  OF  AGASSIZ 
THE    MUSKRATS    ARE 

BUILDING    . 
THE  OFFERING  ... 
THE  AIRMAN'S  ESCAPE 
NOTES,  QUESTIONS,  AND 

COMMENTS  .... 
GLOSSARY 


Grace  Richardson        .      .  267 

Alice  Choate  Perkins        .  268 

Bliss  Carman        .      .      .  268 

The  Contributors'  Club     .  269 

Zitkala-Sa       ....  275 

The  Contributors'  Club    .  287 

John  Kendrick  Bangs      .  291 

William  Wilfred  Campbell  292 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman  295 

Grace  Hazard  Conkling    .  297 

Nathaniel  Southgate  Shaler  299 


Dallas  Lore  Sharp 
Olive  Cecilia  Jacks 
George  W.  Puryear 


307 
321 
323 

347 

377 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"WE  COME"  —  THE  SPIRIT  OF  '17        .        .       Frontispiece 

DALLAS  LORE  SHARP  AND  A  CALIFORNIA  MURRE       .  79 

MIANTOWONA 109 

SAM  CLEMENS  (MARK  TWAIN)  ON  "LOVER'S  LEAP," 

OVERLOOKING  THE  MISSISSIPPI  RIVER  .        .        .  117 

THE  BEAR .  157 

GLOOSKAP 169 

BLUE-JAY 179 

THE  SCHOOLROOM  PARTIALLY  DESTROYED  BY  A  SHELL  199 

SCHOOL  CHILDREN  WITH  GAS-MASKS     ....  205 

A  DESERTED  PASTURE       .        .        .                .        .        .  209 

KING  KALAKAUA  AND  ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON       .  239 

THE  SCHOOLMA'AM  AND  SOME  OF  HER  CHILDREN      .  261 

TERMONDE 296 

MUSKRAT .  309 

THE  MUSKRAT'S  HOUSE  —  OF  His  OWN  BUILDING  320 


FOREWORD 

DEFTLY  to  mingle  the  best  and  most  appropriate  of 
the  old  with  the  best  and  most  appropriate  of  the  new 
—  what  task  is  really  of  more  cultural  significance 
than  this?  For  a  period  of  sixty-two  years  the  Atlantic 
Monthly  has  had  as  its  salient  aim  the  gathering  toge 
ther  in  each  succeeding  issue  the  varied  thoughts  and 
emotions  of  those  men  and  women  who  have  lived 
through  interesting  human  experiences  and  processes, 
and  have  had  the  literary  power  to  make  those  experi 
ences  and  processes  real  to  others. 

After  the  lapse  of  so  many  years  of  this  continuing 
endeavor  on  the  part  of  the  Atlantic,  it  is,  of  course, 
natural  that  we  should  find  in  the  files  of  the  maga 
zine  many  selections  which  make  a  peculiarly  distinct 
appeal  to  young  readers.  Our  aim  in  compiling  and  edit 
ing  this  book  is  to  assemble  in  an  attractive  library  vol 
ume  such  Atlantic  prose  and  poetry  as  will  be  of  com 
pelling  interest  to  this  younger  group  of  pupils.  The 
best  of  the  old  and  the  best  of  the  modern  are  here  repre 
sented.  Thus  are  fittingly  intermingled  old  traditions 
with  the  new  and  varied  conceptions  that  are  born  with 
the  coming  of  each  significant  event. 

We  feel  confident  that  one  result  of  this  reading  will 
be  the  realization  in  the  minds  of  the  young  people  that 
in  each  successive  issue  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly  there 
will  be  found  many  messages  that  will  interest  and 
stimulate  those  who  have  previously  been  under  the 
delusion  that  the  magazine  existed  only  for  those  of  ma- 
turer  years. 

THE  EDITORS. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  '17 

BY  MARY  HERRICK  SMITH 

EN  ROUTE  from  Fort  Ethan  Allen,  Vermont,  to  De 
troit,  whither  my  husband  was  ordered  to  join  his  base 
hospital,  we  were  delayed  in  Ithaca,  New  York.  While 
waiting  in  the  hotel  lounge,  I  chanced  to  overhear  an 
interesting  conversation. 

I  had  noticed  a  fine-looking  man  near  me,  reading  the 
morning  paper:  he  was  distinctly  the  very  prosperous 
city  business  man;  his  well-kempt  appearance  bespoke 
culture,  money,  and  intelligence.  While  I  was  occupied 
with  my  speculations  about  him,  a  young  man,  just  a 
boy,  in  fact,  came  in.  He  was  a  well-set-up  chap,  with 
the  fresh  healthy  skin  and  clear-eyed  eagerness  of  a 
country  lad.  He  had  never  been  far  from  the  up-country 
farm  where  they  raised  the  best  breeds  of  livestock. 
He  could  n't  have  given  a  college  yell  to  save  his  life, 
and  he  was  innocent  of  fraternity  decorations  and 
secrets.  Just  the  kind  of  boy  I  would  like  to  have  call 
me  "mother."  His  clothes  were  good,  but  evidently 
from  the  general  store  of  the  small  town.  He  carried  a 
good-sized  box,  which  he  put  across  his  knees  as  he 
seated  himself.  I  knew  that  it  was  his  luncheon  which 
mother  had  packed,  and  that  it  included  fried  chicken 
and  cold  home-made  sausages,  cakes,  sandwiches,  fried 
cakes,  crullers,  mince  pie  and  cheese,  apples  and  winter 
pears;  and  a  few  relishes  besides.  Why,  I  could  smell 


2  THE   SPIRIT  OF    '17 

the  luncheon  that  my  mother  had  put  up  for  my  brother 
forty  years  ago. 

The  Boy  gazed  all  around,  took  in  each  detail  of  the 
room  and  its  furnishings,  with  all  the  quiet  dignity  and 
interest  of  a  well-born  American  country  youth.  You 
know  a  real  Yankee  country  boy  is  n't  like  any  other; 
there  is  a  balance,  an  understanding,  that  is  natural. 
It  is  inborn  to  be  at  home  in  any  surrounding,  however 
new  and  strange,  so  long  as  it  is  real. 

After  the  Boy  had  surveyed  the  room,  he  looked  over 
at  the  man  reading.  He  sat  perfectly  still  a  few  minutes, 
then  "Oh,  hummed,"  and  waited  again,  and  fidgeted  a 
bit;  but  nobody  spoke.  I  could  see  that  he  was  fairly 
bursting  with  news  of  something.  Finally,  to  the  man, 
"Can  you  tell  me  how  far  it  is  to  Syracuse,  sir?" 

"Well,"  -lowering  his  paper,  —  "not  exactly,  but 
three  or  four  hours,  I  'd  say.  Going  to  Syracuse?  " 

"Yes,  I've  enlisted.  I  passed  one  examination,  but 
I  'm  going  to  Syracuse  for  another,  and  then  I  'm  going 
to  Spartansburg.  Senator  Wadsworth  says,  and  it  looks 
that  way  to  me,  that  it  is  just  as  much  our  fight  as 
theirs,  and  we  ought  to  have  been  in  it  three  years  ago; 
they  are  getting  tired  over  there.  I  'd  hate  to  be  drafted. 
I  'd  feel  mean  to  think  I  had  to  be  dragged  in ;  besides  I 
want  to  do  my  part.  Every  fellow  ought  to  get  into  it." 

"What  part  of  the  service  did  you  elect?" 

"The  infantry,  sir.  I'm  going  to  Spartansburg  to  the 
training-camp."  Silence  for  some  moments;  then,  show 
ing  that  his  bridges  were  burned,  "I've  sold  my  clothes; 
sold  'em  for  four  dollars  and  I  'm  to  send  'em  right  back 
soon 's  I  get  my  uniform.  I  hope  I  don't  have  to  wait  for 
the  soldier  clothes.  I  think  I  got  a  good  bargain  and 


THE   SPIRIT  OF    '17  3 

so  did  the  fellow  I  sold  'em  to.  I  thought  I  would  n't 
need  'em  while  I  was  in  the  army,  and  when  I  got  back 
they  'd  be  all  out  of  style;  and  then  —  I  may  never 
come  back."  A  ripple  of  seriousness  passed  over  his 
boyish  face.  "But  it  was  a  good  chance  and  I  took  it. 
Have  you  a  son,  sir?" 

"Yes,  I  have  a  son  just  eighteen,  at  Cornell.  He  ex 
pects  to  go  next  year  if  they  need  him  in  the  aviation." 

"I'm  just  nineteen.  I  thought  I'd  better  enlist. 
It 's  just  possible  they  might  draft  'em  later,  and  I  just 
could  n't  stand  it  to  be  drafted.  Do  you  think  I  '11  be 
able  to  go  home  for  Thanksgiving?"  he  asked  eagerly. 

"I  would  n't  think  quite  so  soon.  You'll  hardly  get 
there  by  that  time." 

"Well,  I  think  I  can  go  home  for  Christmas,  don't 
you?"  And  a  shade  of  anxiety  crept  into  his  tone. 
"I  live  up  the  road  here  a  way,  —  Wellsville,  you  know, 
—  about  forty  miles.  Don't  you  think  I'll  get  to  Syra 
cuse  to-night  if  I  go  right  on?  I'd  like  to  get  through 
so  I  could  be  ready  for  work  to-morrow  morning.  I 
don't  want  to  waste  any  time  now  that  I'm  all  ready." 

The  Boy  settled  back  with  a  look  of  forced  patience, 
and  the  man  held  up  his  paper  again;  but  I  could  see 
that  he  was  not  reading,  and  there  was  a  look  of  suf 
fused  sadness  on  his  face. 

The  Boy  had  taken  from  his  pocket  a  pair  of  big, 
dark-blue,  home-knitted  mittens;  on  the  palms  was 
sewn  red  woolen  to  reinforce  them.  He  carefully  drew 
them  on,  folded  his  hands,  thumbs  up,  on  his  luncheon- 
box,  edged  to  the  front  of  his  chair,  and  sat  thinking, 
with  eyes  fixed  on  the  far-away  places  of  his  dream. 
He  was  going  over  it  all  again;  there  was  no  haste,  no 


4  THE   SPIRIT  OF   '17 

excitement,  no  foolish  sentiment,  but  sure  determination 
and  the  courage  of  youth  suddenly  turned  to  manhood. 
With  a  little  start  he  came  back  to  the  present,  and, 
rising,  said,  "I  guess  I'd  better  be  going.  You  said  I 
could  get  a  train  in  about  half  an  hour?" 

"Before  you  go,  will  you  tell  me,  my  boy,  why  you 
chose  the  infantry?" 

"  Well,  when  you  read  of  anything  real  hard  that  has 
to  be  done,  you  will  notice  that  it  is  always  the  infantry 
that  does  it.  They  have  to  be  strong  young  fellows 
they  can  depend  on  for  the  real  hard  things.  So  I  chose 
the  infantry,  sir." 

There  was  a  silence,  which  he  broke  with  the  quiet 
words,  "I  think  I'll  be  going.  Good-bye,  sir." 

Springing  from  his  chair,  the  man  grasped  the  Boy's 
hand.  "God  bless  you,  son,  and  good  luck!" 

With  misty  vision  we  both  stood  and  watched  him 
out  of  sight;  then,  with  all  previous  convention  of 
acquaintance  forgotten  as  we  looked  into  each  other's 
eyes,  the  man  said,  "It  is  the  spirit  of  '17  gone  to  the 
colors." 


A   LITERARY  NIGHTMARE 

BY  MARK  TWAIN 

WILL  the  reader  please  to  cast  his  eye  over  the  follow 
ing  verses,  and  see  if  he  can  discover  anything  harmful 
in  them? 

Conductor,  when  you  receive  a  fare, 
Punch  in  the  presence  of  the  passenjare! 
A  blue  trip  slip  for  an  eight-cent  fare, 
A  buff  trip  slip  for  a  six-cent  fare, 
A  pink  trip  slip  for  a  three-cent  fare, 
Punch  in  the  presence  of  the  passenjare! 

CHORUS 

Punch,  brothers!  punch  with  care! 
Punch  in  the  presence  of  the  passenjare! 

I  came  across  these  jingling  rhymes  in  a  newspaper,  a 
little  while  ago,  and  read  them  a  couple  of  times.  They 
took  instant  and  entire  possession  of  me.  All  through 
breakfast  they  went  waltzing  through  my  brain;  and 
when,  at  last,  I  rolled  up  my  napkin,  I  could  not  tell 
whether  I  had  eaten  anything  or  not.  I  had  carefully 
laid  out  my  day's  work  the  day  before  —  a  thrilling 
tragedy  in  the  novel  which  I  am  writing.  I  went  to  my 
den  to  begin  my  deed  of  blood.  I  took  up  my  pen,  but 
all  I  could  get  it  to  say  was,  "Punch  in  the  presence  of 
the  passenjare."  I  fought  hard  for  an  hour,  but  it  was 
useless.  My  head  kept  humming,  "A  blue  trip  slip  for 
an  eight-cent  fare,  a  buff  trip  slip  for  a  six-cent  fare," 
and  so  on  and  so  on,  without  peace  or  respite.  The 


6  A  LITERARY  NIGHTMARE 

day's  work  was  ruined  —  I  could  see  that  plainly 
enough. 

I  gave  up  and  drifted  down  town,  and  presently  dis 
covered  that  my  feet  were  keeping  time  to  that  relent 
less  jingle.  When  I  could  stand  it  no  longer,  I  altered 
my  step.  But  it  did  no  good;  those  rhymes  accommo 
dated  themselves  to  the  new  step  and  went  on  harassing 
me  just  as  before.  I  returned  home,  and  suffered  all  the 
afternoon ;  suffered  all  through  an  unconscious  and  unre- 
freshing  dinner;  suffered,  and  cried,  and  jingled  all 
through  the  evening;  went  to  bed  and  rolled,  tossed,  and 
jingled  right  along,  the  same  as  ever;  got  up  at  midnight, 
frantic,  and  tried  to  read ;  but  there  was  nothing  visible 
upon  the  whirling  page  except  "Punch!  punch  in  the 
presence  of  the  passenjare."  By  sunrise  I  was  out  of  my 
mind,  and  everybody  marveled  and  was  distressed  at 
the  idiotic  burden  of  my  ravings:  "Punch!  oh,  punch! 
punch  in  the  presence  of  the  passenjare!" 

Two  days  later,  on  Saturday  morning,  I  arose,  a  tot 
tering  wreck,  and  went  forth  to  fulfill  an  engagement 
with  a  valued  friend,  the  Rev.  Mr.  -  — ,  to  walk  to  the 
Talcott  Tower,  ten  miles  distant.  He  stared  at  me,  but 
asked  no  questions. 

We  started.  Mr.  -  -  talked,  talked,  talked  —  as  is 
his  wont.  I  said  nothing;  I  heard  nothing.  At  the  end 
of  a  mile,  Mr.  -  -  said :  — 

"Mark,  are  you  sick?  I  never  saw  a  man  look  so  hag 
gard  and  worn  and  absent-minded.  Say  something; 
do!" 

Drearily,  without  enthusiasm,  I  said:  "Punch, 
brothers,  punch  with  care!  Punch  in  the  presence  of  the 
passenjare!" 


A  LITERARY  NIGHTMARE  7 

My  friend  eyed  me  blankly,  looked  perplexed,  then 
said :  "  I  do  not  think  I  get  your  drift,  Mark.  There  does 
not  seem  to  be  any  relevancy  in  what  you  have  said, 
certainly  nothing  sad;  and  yet  —  maybe  it  was  the  way 
you  said  the  words  —  I  never  heard  anything  that 
sounded  so  pathetic.  What  is  - 

But  I  heard  no  more.  I  was  already  far  away  with 
my  pitiless,  heart-breaking  "blue  trip  slip  for  an  eight- 
cent  fare,  buff  trip  slip  for  a  six-cent  fare,  pink  trip  slip 
for  a  three-cent  fare;  punch  in  the  presence  of  thepassen- 
jare."  I  do  not  know  what  occurred  during  the  other 
nine  miles.  However,  all  of  a  sudden  Mr.  —  -  laid  his 
hand  on  my  shoulder  and  shouted :  — 

"Oh,  wake  up!  wake  up!  wake  up!  Don't  sleep  all 
day !  Here  we  are  at  the  Tower,  man !  I  have  talked  my 
self  deaf  and  dumb  and  blind,  and  never  got  a  response. 
Just  look  at  this  magnificent  autumn  landscape!  Look 
at  it !  look  at  it !  Feast  your  eyes  on  it !  You  have  trav 
eled;  you  have  seen  boasted  landscapes  elsewhere. 
Come,  now,  deliver  an  honest  opinion.  What  do  you 
say  to  this?" 

I  sighed  wearily,  and  murmured:  — 

"A  buff  trip  slip  for  a  six-cent  fare,  a  pink  trip  slip  for 
a  three-cent  fare,  punch  in  the  presence  of  the  passen- 
jare." 

Rev.  Mr.  -  -  stood  there,  very  grave,  full  of  con 
cern,  apparently,  and  looked  long  at  me;  then  he  said:  — 

"Mark,  there  is  something  about  this  that  I  cannot 
understand.  Those  are  about  the  same  words  you  said 
before;  there  does  not  seem  to  be  anything  in  them,  and 
yet  they  nearly  break  my  heart  when  you  say  them. 
Punch  in  the  —  how  is  it  they  go?" 


8  A  LITERARY  NIGHTMARE 

I  began  at  the  beginning  and  repeated  all  the  lines. 
My  friend's  face  lighted  with  interest.  He  said :  — 

"Why,  what  a  captivating  jingle  it  is!  It  is  almost 
music.  It  flows  along  so  nicely.  I  have  nearly  caught 
the  rhymes  myself.  Say  them  over  just  once  more,  and 
then  I'll  have  them,  sure." 

I  said  them  over.  Then  Mr.  -  -  said  them.  He 
made  one  little  mistake,  which  I  corrected.  The  next 
time  and  the  next  he  got  them  right.  Now  a  great  bur 
den  seemed  to  tumble  from  my  shoulders.  That  tortur 
ing  jingle  departed  out  of  my  brain,  and  a  grateful  sense 
of  rest  and  peace  descended  upon  me.  I  was  light- 
hearted  enough  to  sing;  and  I  did  sing  for  half  an  hour, 
straight  along,  as  we  went  jogging  homeward.  Then 
my  freed  tongue  found  blessed  speech  again,  and  the 
pent  talk  of  many  a  weary  hour  began  to  gush  and 
flow.  It  flowed  on  and  on,  joyously,  jubilantly,  until 
the  fountain  was  empty  and  dry.  As  I  wrung  my 
friend's  hand  at  parting,  I  said :  - 

"Have  n't  we  had  a  royal  good  time?  But  now  I 
remember,  you  have  n't  said  a  word  for  two  hours. 
Come,  come,  out  with  something!" 

The  Rev.  Mr.  -  -  turned  a  lack-lustre  eye  upon  me, 
drew  a  deep  sigh,  and  said,  without  animation,  without 
apparent  consciousness:  — 

"Punch,  brothers,  punch  with  care!  Punch  in  the 
presence  of  the  passenjare!" 

A  pang  shot  through  me  as  I  said  to  myself,  "Poor 
fellow,  poor  fellow!  he  has' got  it,  now." 

I  did  not  see  Mr.  for  two  or  three  days  after 

that.  Then,  on  Tuesday  evening,  he  staggered  into  my 
presence  and  sank  dejectedly  into  a  seat.  He  was  pale, 


A  LITERARY  NIGHTMARE  9 

worn;  he  was  a  wreck.    He  lifted  his  faded  eyes  to  my 
face  and  said :  — 

"Ah,  Mark,  it  was  a  ruinous  investment  that  I  made 
in  those  heartless  rhymes.  They  have  ridden  me  like  a 
nightmare,  day  and  night,  hour  after  hour,  to  this  very 
moment.  Since  I  saw  you  I  have  suffered  the  torments 
of  the  lost.  Saturday  evening  I  had  a  sudden  call,  by 
telegraph,  and  took  the  night  train  for  Boston.  The 
occasion  was  the  death  of  a  valued  old  friend  who  had 
requested  that  I  should  preach  his  funeral  sermon.  I 
took  my  seat  in  the  cars  and  set  myself  to  framing  the 
discourse.  But  I  never  got  beyond  the  opening  para 
graph;  for  then  the  train  started  and  the  car- wheels 
began  their  'clack-clack-clack-clack!  clack-clack-clack- 
clack  ! '  and  right  away  those  odious  rhymes  fitted  them 
selves  to  that  accompaniment.  For  an  hour  I  sat  there 
and  set  a  syllable  of  those  rhymes  to  every  separate  and 
distinct  clack  the  car-wheels  made.  Why,  I  was  as 
fagged  out,  then,  as  if  I  had  been  chopping  wood  all  day. 
My  skull  was  splitting  with  headache.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  I  must  go  mad  if  I  sat  there  any  longer;  so  I  un 
dressed  and  went  to  bed.  I  stretched  myself  out  in  my 
berth,  and  —  well,  you  know  what  the  result  was.  The 
thing  went  right  along,  just  the  same.  'Clack-clack- 
clack,  a  blue  trip  slip,  clack-clack-clack,  for  an  eight- 
cent  fare;  clack-clack-clack,  a  buff  trip  slip,  clack-clack- 
clack,  for  a  six-cent  fare';  and  so  on,  and  so  on,  and  so 
on  -  ' 'punch,  in  the  presence  of  the  passenjare ! '  Sleep? 
Not  a  single  wink !  I  was  almost  a  lunatic  when  I  got  to 
Boston.  Don't  ask  me  about  the  funeral.  I  did  the  best 
I  could,  but  every  solemn  individual  sentence  was 
meshed  and  tangled  and  woven  in  and  out  with  '  Punch, 


10  A  LITERARY  NIGHTMARE 

brothers,  punch  with  care,  punch  in  the  presence  of  the 
passenjare.'  And  the  most  distressing  thing  was  that 
my  delivery  dropped  into  the  undulating  rhythm  of  those 
pulsing  rhymes,  and  I  could  actually  catch  absent- 
minded  people  nodding  time  to  the  swing  of  it  with  their 
stupid  heads.  And,  Mark,  you  may  believe  it  or  not,  but 
before  I  got  through,  the  entire  assemblage  were  placidly 
bobbing  their  heads  in  solemn  unison,  mourners,  under 
taker,  and  all.  The  moment  I  had  finished,  I  fled  to  the 
anteroom  in  a  state  bordering  on  frenzy.  Of  course  it 
would  be  my  luck  to  find  a  sorrowing  and  aged  maiden 
aunt  of  the  deceased  there,  who  had  arrived  from  Spring 
field  too  late  to  get  into  the  church.  She  began  to  sob, 
and  said:  — 

"  'Oh,  oh,  he  is  gone,  he  is  gone,  and  I  did  n't  see  him 
before  he  died ! ' 

"'Yes!'  I  said,  'he  is  gone,  he  is  gone,  he  is  gone  — 
oh,  will  this  suffering  never  cease?' 

" '  You  loved  him,  then!  Oh,  you  too  loved  him!' 

"'Loved  him!  Loved  who?' 

'"Why,  my  poor  George!  my  poor  nephew!' 

" '  Oh  - —  him!  Yes  —  oh,  yes,  yes !  Certainly  —  cer 
tainly.  Punch  —  punch  - —  Oh,  this  misery  will  kill  me ! ' 

'"Bless  you!  bless  you,  sir,  for  these  sweet  words! 
I,  too,  suffer  in  this  dear  loss.  Were  you  present  during 
his  last  moments? ' 

: '  Yes !   I  —  whose  last  moments? ' 

'"His.   The  dear  departed's.' 

"'Yes!  .Oh,  yes  —  yes  —  yes!  I  suppose  so,  I  think 
so,  I  don't  know!  Oh,  certainly  —  I  was  there  —  /  was 
there!' 

'"Oh,  what  a  privilege!  what  a  precious  privilege! 


A  LITERARY  NIGHTMARE  11 

And  his  last  words  —  oh,  tell  me,  tell  me  his  last  words ! 
What  did  he  say?' 

"He  said — he  said  —  oh,  my  head,  my  head,  my 
head !  He  said  —  he  said  —  he  never  said  anything  but 
Punch,  punch,  punch  in  the  presence  of  the  passenjare! 
Oh,  leave  me,  madam !  In  the  name  of  all  that  is  gener 
ous,  leave  me  to  my  madness,  my  misery,  my  despair! 
—  a  buff  trip  slip  for  a  six-cent  fare,  a  pink  trip  slip  for  a 
three-cent  fare  —  endu-rance  can  no  fur-ther  go !  - 
PUNCH  in  the  presence  of  the  passenjare!" 

My  friend's  hopeless  eyes  rested  upon  mine  a  pregnant 
minute,  and  then  he  said  impressively:  — 

"  Mark,  you  do  not  say  anything.  You  do  not  offer  me 
any  hope.  But,  ah  me,  it  is  just  as  well  —  it  is  just  as 
well.  You  could  not  do  me  any  good.  The  time  has  long 
gone  by  when  words  could  comfort  me.  Something  tells 
me  that  my  tongue  is  doomed  to  wag  forever  to  the 
jigger  of  that  remorseless  jingle.  There  —  there  it  is 
coming  on  me  again:  a  blue  trip  slip  for  an  eight-cent 
fare,  a  buff  trip  slip  for  a  — 

Thus  murmuring  faint  and  fainter,  my  friend  sank 
into  a  peaceful  trance  and  forgot  his  sufferings  in  a 
blessed  respite. 

How  did  I  finally  save  him  from  the  asylum?  I  took 
him  to  a  neighboring  university  and  made  him  discharge 
the  burden  of  his  persecuting  rhymes  into  the  eager  ears 
of  the  poor,  unthinking  students.  How  is  it  with  them, 
now?  The  result  is  too  sad  to  tell. 

Why  did  I  write  this  article?  It  was  for  a  worthy, 
even  a  noble,  purpose.  It  was  to  warn  you,  reader,  if 
you  should  come  across  those  merciless  rhymes,  to 
avoid  them  —  avoid  them  as  you  would  a  pestilence ! 


PERE  ANTOINE'S  DATE-PALM 

A  LEGEND   OF  NEW.  ORLEANS 
BY  THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 

NEAR  the  levee,  and  not  far  from  the  old  French  Cathe 
dral,  in  New  Orleans,  stands  a  fine  date-palm,  some 
thirty  feet  high,  growing  out  in  the  open  air  as  sturdily 
as  if  its  roots  were  sucking  sap  from  their  native  earth. 
Sir  Charles  Lyell,  in  his  "Second  Visit  to  the  United 
States,"  mentions  this  exotic:  — 

"The  tree  is  seventy  or  eighty  years  old;  for  Pere 
Antoine,  a  Roman  Catholic  priest,  who  died  about 
twenty  years  ago,  told  Mr.  Bringier  that  he  planted  it 
himself,  when  he  was  young.  In  his  will  he  provided 
that  they  who  succeeded  to  this  lot  of  ground  should  for 
feit  it,  if  they  cut  down  the  palm." 

Wishing  to  learn  something  of  Pere  Antoine's  history, 
Sir  Charles  Lyell  made  inquiries  among  the  ancient 
Creole  inhabitants  of  the  faubourg.  That  the  old  priest, 
in  his  last  days,  became  very  much  emaciated,  that  he 
walked  about  the  streets  like  a  mummy,  that  he  gradu 
ally  dried  up,  and  finally  blew  away,  was  the  meagre 
result  of  the  tourist's  investigations. 

This  is  all  that  is  generally  known  of  Pere  Antoine. 
Miss  Badeau's  story  clothes  these  bare  facts. 

When  Pere  Antoine  was  a  very  young  man,  he  had  a 
friend  whom  he  loved  as  he  loved  his  eyes,  fimile  Jardin 
returned  his  passion,  and  the  two,  on  account  of  their 


PfiRE  ANTOINE'S  DATE-PALM          13 

friendship,  became  the  marvel  of  the  city  where  they 
dwelt.  One  was  never  seen  without  the  other;  for  they 
studied,  walked,  ate,  and  slept  together. 

Antoine  and  fmiile  were  preparing  to  enter  the 
Church;  indeed,  they  had  taken  the  preliminary  steps, 
when  a  circumstance  occurred  which  changed  the  color 
of  their  lives. 

A  foreign  lady,  from  some  far-off  island  in  the  Pacific, 
had  a  few  months  before  moved  into  their  neighbor 
hood.  The  lady  died  suddenly,  leaving  a  girl  of  sixteen 
or  seventeen  entirely  friendless  and  unprovided  for. 
The  young  men  had  been  kind  to  the  wToman  during  her 
illness,  and  at  her  death,  melting  with  pity  at  the  forlorn 
situation  of  Anglice,  the  daughter,  swore  between  them 
selves  to  love  and  watch  over  her  as  if  she  were  their 
sister. 

Now  Anglice  had  a  wild,  strange  beauty  that  made 
other  women  seem  tame  beside  her ;  and  in  the  course  of 
time  the  young  men  found  themselves  regarding  their 
ward  not  so  much  like  brothers  as  at  first.  They  strug 
gled  with  their  destiny  manfully,  for  the  holy  orders 
which  they  were  about  to  assume  precluded  the  idea  of 
love. 

But  every  day  taught  them  to  be  more  fond  of  her. 
So  they  drifted  on.  The  weak  like  to  temporize. 

One  night  Emile  Jardin  and  Anglice  were  not  to  be 
found.  They  had  flown  —  but  whither,  nobody  knew, 
and  nobody,  save  Antoine,  cared. 

It  was  a  heavy  blow  to  Antoine  —  for  he  had  half 
made  up  his  mind  to  run  away  with  her  himself. 

A  strip  of  paper  slipped  from  a  volume  on  Antoine's 
desk,  and  fluttered  to  his  feet. 


14 

"Do  not  be  angry,"  said  the  bit  of  paper,  piteously; 
"forgive  us,  for  we  love." 

Three  years  went  by.  Antoine  had  entered  the 
Church,  and  was  already  looked  upon  as  a  rising  man; 
but  his  face  was  pale  and  his  heart  leaden,  for  there  was 
no  sweetness  in  life  for  him. 

Four  years  had  elapsed,  when  a  letter,  covered  with 
outlandish  stamps,  was  brought  to  the  young  priest  — 
a  letter  from  Anglice.  She  was  dying;  would  he  forgive 
her?  Emile,  the  year  previous,  had  fallen  a  victim  to  the 
fever  that  raged  on  the  island;  and  their  child,  little 
Anglice,  was  likely  to  follow  him.  In  pitiful  terms  she 
begged  Antoine  to  take  charge  of  the  child  until  she  was 
old  enough  to  enter  a  convent.  The  epistle  was  finished 
by  another  hand,  informing  Antoine  of  Madame  Jar- 
din's  death;  it  also  told  him  that  Anglice  had  been 
placed  on  a  vessel  shortly  to  leave  the  island  for  some 
Western  port. 

The  letter  was  hardly  read  and  wept  over,  when  little 
Anglice  arrived.  On  beholding  her,  Antoine  uttered  a 
cry  of  joy  and  surprise  —  she  was  so  like  the  woman  he 
had  worshiped. 

As  a  man's  tears  are  more  pathetic  than  a  woman's, 
so  is  his  love  more  intense  —  not  more  enduring,  or  half 
so  subtile,  but  more  intense. 

The  passion  that  had  been  crowded  down  in  his  heart 
broke  out  and  lavished  its  richness  on  this  child,  who 
was  to  him,  not  only  the  Anglice  of  years  ago,  but  his 
friend  Emile  Jardin  also. 

Anglice  possessed  the  wild,  strange  beauty  of  her 
mother  —  the  bending,  willowy  form,  the  rich  tint  of 


PfiRE   ANTOINE'S  DATE-PALM  15 

skin,  the  large  tropical  eyes,  that  had  almost  made 
Antoine's  sacred  robes  a  mockery  to  him. 

For  a  month  or  two  Anglice  was  wildly  unhappy  in 
her  new  home.  She  talked  continually  of  the  bright 
country  where  she  was  born,  the  fruits  and  flowers  and 
blue  skies.  Antoine  could  not  pacify  her.  By-and-by 
she  ceased  to  weep,  and  went  about  the  cottage  with  a 
dreary,  disconsolate  air  that  cut  Antoine  to  the  heart. 
Before  the  year  ended,  he  noticed  that  the  ruddy  tinge 
had  fled  from  her  cheek,  that  her  eyes  had  grown  lan 
guid,  and  her  slight  figure  more  willowy  than  ever. 

A  physician  was  called.  He  could  discover  nothing 
wrong  with  the  child,  except  this  fading  and  drooping. 
He  failed  to  account  for  that.  It  was  some  vague  disease 
of  the  mind,  he  said,  beyond  his  skill. 

So  Anglice  faded  day  after  day.  She  seldom  left  the 
room  now.  Antoine  could  not  shut  out  the  fact  that 
the  child  was  passing  away.  He  had  learned  to  love 
her  so! 

"Dear  heart,"  he  said  once,  "what  is't  ails  thee?" 

"Nothing,  mon  pere"    -  for  so  she  called  him. 

The  winter  passed,  the  balmy  spring  air  had  come, 
and  Anglice  seemed  to  revive.  In  her  little  bamboo 
chair,  on  the  porch,  she  swayed  to  and  fro  in  the  fragrant 
breeze,  with  a  peculiar  undulating  motion,  like  a  grace 
ful  tree. 

At  times  something  seemed  to  weigh  upon  her  mind. 
Antoine  noticed  it,  and  waited.  At  length  she  spoke. 

"Near  our  house,"  said  little  Anglice,  "near  our 
house,  on  the  island,  the  palm  trees  are  waving  under 
the  blue  sky.  Oh,  how  beautiful !  I  seem  to  lie  beneath 
them  all  day  long.  I  am  very,  very  happy.  I  yearned 


16          PfcRE  ANTOINE 'S  DATE-PALM 

for  them  until  I  grew  sick  —  don't  you  think  so,  mon 
pere?" 

"Mon  Dieu,  yes!"  exclaimed  Antoine,  suddenly. 
"  Let  us  hasten  to  those  pleasant  islands  where  the  palms 
are  waving." 

Anglice  smiled. 

"I  am  going  there,  mon  pere!" 

Ay,  indeed.  A  week  from  that  evening  the  wax  can 
dles  burned  at  her  feet  and  forehead,  lighting  her  on  the 
journey. 

All  was  over.  Now  was  Antoine's  heart  empty.  He 
had  nothing  to  do  but  to  lay  the  blighted  flower  away. 

Pere  Antoine  made  a  shallow  grave  in  his  garden,  and 
heaped  the  fresh  brown  mould  over  his  idol. 

In  the  genial  spring  evenings  the  priest  was  seen  sit 
ting  by  the  mound,  his  finger  closed  in  the  unread 
prayer-book. 

The  summer  broke  on  that  sunny  land;  and  in  the 
cool  morning  twilight,  and  after  nightfall,  Antoine  lin 
gered  by  the  grave.  He  could  never  be  with  it  enough. 

One  morning  he  observed  a  delicate  stem,  with  two 
curiously  shaped  emerald  leaves,  springing  up  from  the 
centre  of  the  mound.  At  first  he  merely  noticed  it  casu 
ally;  but  at  length  the  plant  grew  so  tall,  and  was  so 
strangely  unlike  anything  he  had  ever  seen  before,  that 
he  examined  it  with  care. 

How  straight  and  graceful  and  exquisite  it  was! 
When  it  swung  to  and  fro  with  the  summer  wind,  in  the 
twilight,  it  seemed  to  Antoine  as  if  little  Anglice  were 
standing  there  in  the  garden! 

The  days  stole  by,  and  Antoine  tended  the  fragile 
shoot,  wondering  what  sort  of  blossom  it  would  unfold, 


PERE   ANTOINE'S  DATE-PALM  17 

white,  or  scarlet,  or  golden.  One  Sunday,  a  stranger, 
with  a  bronzed,  weather-beaten  face  like  a  sailor's, 
leaned  over  the  garden-rail,  and  said  to  him :  — 

"What  a  fine  young  date-palm  you  have  there,  sir!" 

"  Mon  Dieu ! "  cried  Pere  Antoine, "  and  is  it  a  palm?  " 

"Yes,  indeed,"  returned  the  man.  "  I  had  no  idea  the 
tree  would  flourish  in  this  climate." 

"  Mon  Dieu  /  "  was  all  the  priest  could  say. 

If  Pere  Antoine  loved  the  tree  before,  he  worshiped  it 
now.  He  watered  it,  and  nurtured  it,  and  could  have 
clasped  it  in  his  arms.  Here  were  Emile  and  Anglice  and 
the  child,  all  in  one! 

The  years  flew  by,  and  the  date-palm  and  the  priest 
grew  together  —  only  one  became  vigorous  and  the 
other  feeble.  Pere  Antoine  had  long  passed  the  meridian 
of  life.  The  tree  was  in  its  youth.  It  no  longer  stood  in 
an  isolated  garden,  for  homely  brick  and  wooden 
houses  had  clustered  about  Antoine's  cottage.  They 
looked  down  scowling  on  the  humble  thatched  roof. 
The  city  was  edging  up,  trying  to  crowd  him  off  his 
land.  But  he  clung  to  it,  and  would  n't  sell.  Speculators 
piled  gold  on  his  doorstep,  and  he  laughed  at  them. 
Sometimes  he  was  hungry,  but  he  laughed  none  the  less. 

"Get  thee  behind  me,  Satan!"  said  the  old  priest's 
smile. 

Pere  Antoine  was  very  old  now,  scarcely  able  to 
walk;  but  he  could  sit  under  the  pliant,  caressing  loaves 
of  his  tree,  and  there  he  sat  until  the  grimmest  of  specu 
lators  came  to  him.  But  even  in  death  Pere  Antoine 
was  faithful  to  his  trust.  The  owner  of  that  land  loses  it, 
if  he  harms  the  date-tree. 

And  there  it  stands  in  the  narrow,  dingy  street,  a 


18  P£RE  ANTOINE'S  DATE-PALM 

beautiful,  dreamy  stranger,  an  exquisite  foreign  lady 
whose  grace  is  a  joy  to  the  eye,  the  incense  of  whose 
breath  makes  the  air  enamored.  A  precious  boon  is  she 
to  the  wretched  city;  and  when  loyal  men  again  walk 
those  streets,  may  the  hand  wither  that  touches  her 
ungently ! 

"Because  it  grew  from  the  heart  of  little  Anglice," 
said  Miss  Badeau,  tenderly. 


ALEC  YEATON'S  SON 

GLOUCESTER,   AUGUST,    1720 
BY  THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 

THE  wind  it  wailed,  the  wind  it  moaned, 

And  the  white  caps  flecked  the  sea; 
"An'  I  would  to  God,"  the  skipper  groaned, 
"I  had  not  my  boy  with  me!" 

Snug  in  the  stern-sheets,  little  John 
Laughed  as  the  scud  swept  by; 

But  the  skipper's  sunburnt  cheek  grew  wan 
As  he  watched  the  wicked  sky. 

"Would  he  were  at  his  mother's  side!" 
And  the  skipper's  eyes  were  dim. 

"Good  Lord  in  heaven,  if  ill  betide, 
What  would  become  of  him ! 

"For  me  —  my  muscles  are  as  steel, 

For  me  let  hap  what  may; 
I  might  make  shift  upon  the  keel 
Until  the  break  o'  day. 

"  But  he,  he  is  so  weak  and  small, 

So  young,  scarce  learned  to  stand  — 
O  pitying  Father  of  us  all, 
I  trust  him  in  Thy  hand ! 


20  ALEC   YEATON'S  SON 

"  For  Thou,  who  markest  from  on  high 

A  sparrow's  fall  —  each  one !  — 
Surely,  O  Lord,  thou  'It  have  an  eye 
On  Alec  Yeaton's  son!" 

Then,  helm  hard-port,  right  straight  he  sailed 

Toward  the  headland  light: 
The  wind  it  moaned,  the  wind  it  wailed, 

And  black,  black  fell  the  night 

Then  burst  a  storm  to  make  one  quail, 
Though  housed  from  winds  and  waves  — 

They  who  could  tell  about  that  gale 
Must  rise  from  watery  graves! 

Sudden  it  came,  as  sudden  went; 

Ere  half  the  night  was  sped, 
The  winds  were  hushed,  the  waves  were  spent, 

And  the  stars  shone  overhead. 

Now,  as  the  morning  mist  grew  thin, 

The  folk  on  Gloucester  shore 
Saw  a  little  figure  floating  in, 

Secure,  on  a  broken  oar! 

Up  rose  the  cry,  "A  wreck!  a  wreck! 

Pull,  mates,  and  waste  no  breath!" 
They  knew  it,  though  't  was  but  a  speck 

Upon  the  edge  of  death ! 

Long  did  they  marvel  in  the  town 

At  God  his  strange  decree, 
That  let  the  stalwart  skipper  drown, 

And  the  little  child  go  free! 


A   CANADIAN  FOLK-SONG 

BY  WILLIAM  WILFRID  CAMPBELL 

THE  doors  are  shut,  the  windows  fast; 
Outside  the  gust  is  driving  past, 
Outside  the  shivering  ivy  clings, 
While  on  the  hob  the  kettle  sings. 
"Margery,  Margery,  make  the  tea," 
Singeth  the  kettle  merrily. 

The  streams  are  hushed  up  where  they  flowed, 
The  ponds  are  frozen  along  the  road, 
The  cattle  are  housed  in  shed  and  byre, 
While  singe th  the  kettle  on  the  fire. 
"Margery,  Margery,  make  the  tea," 
Singeth  the  kettle  merrily. 

The  fisherman  on  the  bay  in  his  boat 
Shivers  and  buttons  up  his  coat; 
The  traveler  stops  at  the  tavern  door, 
And  the  kettle  answers  the  chimney's  roar. 
"Margery,  Margery,  make  the  tea," 
Singeth  the  kettle  merrily. 

The  firelight  dances  upon  the  wall, 
Footsteps  are  heard  in  the  outer  hall; 
A  kiss  and  a  welcome  that  fill  the  room, 
And  the  kettle  sings  in  the  glimmer  and  gloom. 
"Margery,  Margery,  make  the  tea," 
Singeth  the  kettle  merrily. 


THE   CHILDREN'S   CITIES 

BY  ELIZABETH  SARA  SHEPPARD 

THERE  was  a  certain  king  who  had  three  sons,  and 
who,  loving  them  all  alike,  desired  to  leave  them  to 
reign  over  his  kingdom  as  brothers,  and  not  one  above 
another. 

His  kingdom  consisted  of  three  beautiful  cities,  di 
vided  by  valleys  covered  with  flowers  and  full  of  grass; 
but  the  cities  lay  so  near  each  other  that  from  the  walls 
of  each  you  could  see  the  walls  of  the  other  two.  The 
first  city  was  called  the  city  of  Lessonland,  the  second 
the  city  of  Confection,  and  the  third  the  city  of  Pastime. 

The  king,  feeling  himself  very  old  and  feeble,  sent  for 
the  lawyers  to  write  his  will  for  him,  that  his  children 
might  know  how  he  wished  them  to  behave  after  he  was 
dead.  So  the  lawyers  came  to  the  palace  and  went  into 
the  king's  bedroom,  where  he  lay  in  his  golden  bed,  and 
the  will  was  drawn  up  as  he  desired. 

One  day,  not  long  after  the  will  was  made,  the  king's 
fool  was  trying  to  make  a  boat  of  a  leaf  to  sail  it  upon 
the  silver  river.  And  the  fool  thought  the  paper  on 
which  the  will  was  written  would  make  a  better  boat  — 
for  he  could  not  read  what  was  written;  so  he  ran  to  the 
palace  quickly,  and  knowing  where  it  was  laid,  he  got 
the  will  and  made  a  boat  of  it  and  set  it  sailing  upon  the 
river,  and  away  it  floated  out  of  sight.  And  the  worst  of 
all  was,  that  the  king  took  such  a  fright,  when  the  will 


THE   CHILDREN'S  CITIES  23 

blew  away,  that  he  could  speak  no  more  when  the  law 
yers  came  back  with  the  golden  ink.  And  he  never  made 
another  will,  but  died  without  telling  his  sons  what  he 
wished  them  to  do. 

However,  the  king's  sons,  though  they  had  little 
bodies,  because  they  were  princes  of  the  Kingdom  of 
Children,  were  very  good  little  persons,  —  at  least,  they 
had  not  yet  been  naughty,  and  had  never  quarreled,  — 
so  that  the  child-people  loved  them  almost  as  well  as 
they  loved  each  other.  The  child-people  were  quite 
pleased  that  the  princes  should  rule  over  them;  but  they 
did  not  know  how  to  arrange,  because  there  was  no 
king's  will,  and  by  right  the  eldest  ought  to  have  the 
whole  kingdom.  But  the  eldest,  whose  name  was  Gentil, 
called  his  brothers  to  him  and  said :  — 

"I  am  quite  sure,  though  there  is  no  will,  that  our 
royal  papa  built  the  three  cities  that  we  might  each  have 
one  to  reign  over,  and  not  one  reign  over  all.  Therefore 
I  will  have  you  both,  dear  brothers,  choose  a  city  to 
govern  over,  and  I  will  govern  over  the  city  you  do  not 
choose." 

And  his  brothers  danced  for  joy;  and  the  people  too 
were  pleased,  for  they  loved  all  the  three  princes.  But 
there  were  not  enough  people  in  the  kingdom  to  fill 
more  than  one  city  quite  full.  Was  not  this  very  odd? 
Gentil  thought  so;  but,  as  he  could  not  make  out  the 
reason,  he  said  to  the  child-people:  — 

"I  will  count  you,  and  divide  you  into  three  parts, 
and  each  part  shall  go  to  one  city." 

For,  before  the  king  had  built  the  cities,  the  child- 
people  had  lived  in  the  green  valleys,  and  slept  on  beds 
of  flowers. 


24  THE   CHILDREN'S   CITIES 

So  Joujou,  the  second  prince,  chose  the  city  of  Pas 
time;  and  Bonbon,  the  youngest  prince,  chose  the  city 
of  Confection ;  and  the  city  of  Lessonland  was  left  for 
Prince  Gentil,  who  took  possession  of  it  directly. 

First  let  us  see  how  the  good  Gentil  got  on  in  his  city. 

The  city  of  Lessonland  was  built  of  books,  all  books, 
and  only  books.  The  walls  were  books,  set  close  like 
bricks,  and  the  bridges  over  the  rivers  (which  were  very 
blue)  were  built  of  books  in  arches,  and  there  were 
books  to  pave  the  roads  and  paths,  and  the  doors  of  the 
houses  were  books  with  golden  letters  on  the  outside. 
The  palace  of  Prince  Gentil  was  built  of  the  largest 
books,  all  bound  in  scarlet  and  green  and  purple  and 
blue  and  yellow.  And  inside  the  palace  all  the  loveliest 
pictures  were  hung  upon  the  walls,  and  the  handsomest 
maps;  and  in  his  library  were  all  the  lesson-books  and 
all  the  story-books  in  the  world.  Directly  Gentil  began 
to  reign,  he  said  to  himself:  - 

"  What  are  all  these  books  for?  They  must  mean  that 
we  are  to  learn,  and  to  become  very  clever,  in  order  to 
be  good.  I  wish  to  be  very  clever,  and  to  make  my 
people  so;  so  I  must  set  them  a  good  example." 

And  he  called  all  his  child-people  together,  who  would 
do  anything  for  the  love  of  him,  and  he  said :  - 

"If  wre  mean  to  be  of  any  use  in  the  world,  we  must 
learn,  learn,  learn,  and  read,  read,  read,  and  always  be 
doing  lessons." 

And  they  said  they  would,  to  please  him;  and  they  all 
gathered  together  in  the  palace  council-chamber,  and 
Gentil  set  them  tasks,  the  same  as  he  set  himself,  and 
they  all  went  home  to  learn  them,  while  he  learned  his 
in  the  palace. 


THE   CHILDREN'S   CITIES  25 

Now  let  us  see  how  Joujou  is  getting  on.  He  was  a 
good  prince,  Joujou  —  oh,  so  fond  of  fun !  as  you  may 
believe,  from  his  choosing  the  city  of  Pastime.  Oh,  that 
city  of  Pastime !  how  unlike  the  city  of  dear,  dull  Lesson- 
land!  The  walls  of  the  city  of  Pastime  were  beautiful 
toy-bricks,  painted  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow;  and  the 
streets  of  the  city  were  filled  with  carriages  just  big 
enough  for  child-people  to  drive  in,  and  little  gigs,  and 
music-carts,  and  post-chaises,  that  ran  along  by  clock 
work,  and  such  rocking-horses !  And  there  was  not  to  be 
found  a  book  in  the  whole  city,  but  the  houses  were 
crammed  with  toys  from  the  top  to  the  bottom  = —  tops, 
hoops,  balls,  battledores,  bows  and  arrows,  guns,  peep- 
shows,  drums  and  trumpets,  marbles,  ninepins,  tum 
blers,  kites,  and  hundreds  upon  hundreds  more,  for 
there  you  found  every  toy  that  ever  was  made  in  the 
world,  besides  thousands  of  large  wax  dolls,  all  in  differ 
ent  court-dresses.  And  directly  Joujou  began  to  reign, 
he  said  to  himself:  — 

"What  are  all  these  toys  for?  They  must  mean  that 
we  are  to  play  always,  that  we  may  be  always  happy. 
I  wish  to  be  very  happy,  and  that  my  people  should  be 
happy,  always.  Won't  I  set  them  an  example?" 

And  Joujou  blew  a  penny-trumpet,  and  got  on  the 
back  of  the  largest  rocking-horse  and  rocked  with  all  his 
might,  and  cried :  — 

"  Child-people,  you  are  to  play  always,  for  in  all  the 
city  of  Pastime  you  see  nothing  else  but  toys!" 

The  child-people  did  not  wait  long:  some  jumped  on 
rocking-horses,  some  drove  off  in  carriages,  and  some  in 
gigs  and  music-carts.  And  organs  were  played,  and 
bells  rang,  and  shuttlecocks  and  kites  flew  up  the  blue 


26  THE   CHILDREN'S   CITIES 

sky,  and  there  was  laughter,  laughter,  in  all  the  streets 
of  Pastime! 

And  now  for  little  Bonbon,  how  is  he  getting  on?  He 
was  a  dear  little  fat  fellow  —  but,  oh,  so  fond  of  sweets ! 
as  you  may  believe,  from  his  choosing  the  city  of  Con 
fection.  And  there  were  no  books  in  Confection,  and  no 
toys;  but  the  walls  were  built  of  gingerbread,  and  the 
houses  were  built  of  gingerbread,  and  the  bridges  of 
barley-sugar,  that  glittered  in  the  sun.  And  rivers  ran 
with  wine  through  the  streets,  sweet  wine,  such  as  child- 
people  love;  and  Christmas-trees  grew  along  the  banks 
of  the  rivers,  with  candy  and  almonds  and  golden  nuts 
on  the  branches;  and  in  every  house  the  tables  were 
made  of  sweet  brown  chocolate,  and  there  were  great 
plum-cakes  on  the  tables,  and  little  cakes,  and  all  sorts 
of  cakes.  And  when  Bonbon  began  to  reign,  he  did  not 
think  much  about  it,  but  began  to  eat  directly,  and 
called  out,  with  his  mouth  full :  - 

"Child-people,  eat  always!  for  in  all  the  city  of  Con 
fection  there  is  nothing  but  cakes  and  sweets." 

And  did  not  the  child-people  fall  to,  and  eat  directly, 
and  eat  on,  and  eat  always ! 

Now  by  this  time  what  has  happened  to  Gentil?  for 
we  left  him  in  the  city  of  Lessonland.  All  the  first  day 
he  learned  the  lessons  he  had  set  himself,  and  the  people 
learned  theirs  too,  and  they  all  came  to  Gentil  in  the 
evening  to  say  them  to  the  Prince.  But  by  the  time 
Gentil  had  heard  all  the  lessons,  he  was  very,  very  tired 
—  so  tired  that  he  tumbled  asleep  on  the  throne;  and 
when  the  child-people  saw  their  prince  was  asleep,  they 
thought  they  might  as  well  go  to  sleep  too.  And  when 
Gentil  awoke  the  next  morning,  behold !  there  were  all 


THE   CHILDREN'S   CITIES  27 

his  people  asleep  on  the  floor.  And  he  looked  at  his 
watch  and  found  it  was  very  late,  and  he  woke  up  the 
people,  crying,  with  a  very  loud  voice:  - 

"It  is  very  late,  good  people!" 

And  the  people  jumped  up,  and  rubbed  their  eyes,  and 
cried :  - 

"We  have  been  learning  always,  and  we  can  no  longer 
see  to  read;  the  letters  dance  before  our  eyes." 

And  all  the  child-people  groaned,  and  cried  very  bit 
terly  behind  their  books. 

Then  Gentil  said :  — 

"  I  will  read  to  you,  my  people,  and  that  will  rest  your 
eyes." 

And  he  read  them  a  delightful  story  about  animals; 
but  when  he  stopped  to  show  them  a  picture  of  a  lion, 
the  people  were  all  asleep.  Then  Gentil  grew  angry,  and 
cried  in  a  loud  voice :  — 

"Wake  up,  idle  people,  and  listen!" 

But  when  the  people  woke  up,  they  were  stupid,  and 
sat  like  cats  and  sulked.  So  Gentil  put  the  book  away, 
and  sent  them  home,  giving  them  each  a  long  task  for 
their  rudeness.  The  child-people  went  away;  but,  as 
they  found  only  books  out  of  doors,  and  only  books  at 
home,  they  went  to  sleep  without  learning  their  tasks. 
And  all  the  fifth  day  they  slept.  But  on  the  sixth  day 
Gentil  went  out  to  see  what  they  were  doing;  and  they 
began  to  throw  their  books  about,  and  a  book  knocked 
Prince  Gentil  on  the  head,  and  hurt  him  so  much  that 
he  was  obliged  to  go  to  bed.  And  while  he  was  in  bed, 
the  people  began  to  fight,  and  to  throw  the  books  at  one 
another. 

Now  as  for  Joujou  and  his  people,  they  began  to  play, 


28  THE   CHILDREN'S   CITIES 

and  went  on  playing,  and  did  nothing  else  but  play. 
And  —  would  you  believe  it?  —  they  got  tired,  too. 
The  first  day  and  the  second  day  nobody  thought  he 
ever  could  be  tired,  among  the  rocking-horses  and  whips 
and  marbles  and  kites  and  dolls  and  carriages.  But  the 
third  day  everybody  wanted  to  ride  at  once,  and  the 
carriages  were  so  full  that  they  broke  down,  and  the 
rocking-horses  rocked  over,  and  wounded  some  little 
men;  and  the  little  women  snatched  their  dolls  from 
one  another,  and  the  dolls  were  broken.  And  on  the 
fourth  day  the  Prince  Joujou  cut  a  hole  in  the  very 
largest  drum,  and  made  the  drummer  angry;  and  the 
drummer  threw  a  drumstick  at  Joujou,  and  Prince  Jou 
jou  told  the  drummer  he  should  go  to  prison.  Then  the 
drummer  got  on  the  top  of  the  painted  wall,  and  shot 
arrows  at  the  Prince,  which  did  not  hurt  him  much, 
because  they  were  toy-arrows,  but  which  made  Joujou 
very  much  afraid,  for  he  did  not  wish  his  people  to  hate 
him. 

"What  do  you  want?"  he  cried  to  the  drummer. 
"Tell  me  what  I  can  do  to  please  you.  Shall  we  play  at 
marbles,  or  balls,  or  knock  down  the  golden  ninepins? 
Or  shall  we  have  Punch  and  Judy  in  the  court  of  the 
palace?" 

"Yes!  yes!"  cried  the  people,  and  the  drummer 
jumped  down  from  the  wall.  "Yes!  yes!  Punch  and 
Judy!  We  are  tired  of  marbles,  and  balls,  and  ninepins. 
But  we  sha'n't  be  tired  of  Punch  and  Judy!" 

So  the  people  gathered  together  in  the  court  of  the 
palace,  and  saw  Punch  and  Judy  over  and  over  again, 
all  day  long  on  the  fifth  day.  And  they  had  it  so  often, 
that,  when  the  sixth  day  came,  they  pulled  down  the 


THE   CHILDREN'S   CITIES  29 

stage,  and  broke  Punch  to  pieces,  and  burned  Judy,  and 
screamed  out  that  they  were  so  hungry  they  did  not 
know  what  to  do.  And  the  drummer  called  out:  — 

"Let  us  eat  Prince  Joujou!" 

But  the  people  loved  him  still;  so  they  answered:  — 

"No!  but  we  will  go  out  of  the  city  and  invade  the 
city  of  Confection,  and  fight  them,  if  they  won't  give  us 
anything  to  eat!" 

So  out  they  went,  with  Joujou  at  their  head;  for  Jou 
jou,  too,  was  dreadfully  hungry.  And  they  crossed  the 
green  valley  to  the  city  of  Confection,  and  began  to  try 
and  eat  the  gingerbread  walls.  But  the  gingerbread  was 
hard,  because  the  walls  had  been  built  in  ancient  days ; 
and  the  people  tried  to  get  on  the  top  of  the  walls,  and 
when  they  had  eaten  a  few  holes  in  the  gingerbread, 
they  climbed  up  by  them  to  the  top.  And  there  they 
saw  a  dreadful  sight.  All  the  people  had  eaten  so  much 
that  they  were  ill,  or  else  so  fat  that  they  could  not  move. 
And  the  people  were  lying  about  in  the  streets,  and  by 
the  side  of  the  rivers  of  sweet  wine,  but,  oh,  so  sick,  that 
they  could  eat  no  more!  And  Prince  Bonbon,  who  had 
got  into  the  largest  Christmas-tree,  had  eaten  all  the 
candy  upon  it,  and  grown  so  fat  that  he  could  not  move, 
but  stuck  up  there  among  the  branches.  When  the 
people  of  Pastime  got  upon  the  walls,  however,  the 
people  of  Confection  were  very  angry;  and  one  or  two 
of  those  who  could  eat  the  most,  and  who  still  kept  on 
eating  while  they  were  sick,  threw  apples  and  cakes  at 
the  people  of  Pastime,  and  shot  Joujou  with  sugar 
plums,  which  he  picked  up  and  ate,  while  his  people 
were  eating  the  plum-cakes,  and  drinking  the  wine  till 
they  were  tipsy. 


30  THE   CHILDREN'S   CITIES 

As  soon  as  Gentil  heard  what  a  dreadful  noise  his 
people  were  making,  he  got  up,  though  he  still  felt 
poorly,  and  went  out  into  the  streets.  The  people  were 
fighting,  alas!  worse  than  ever;  and  they  were  trying  to 
pull  down  the  strong  book- walls,  that  they  might  get  out 
of  the  city.  A  good  many  of  them  were  wounded  in  the 
head,  as  well  as  Prince  Gentil,  by  the  heavy  books  falling 
upon  them;  and  Gentil  was  very  sorry  for  the  people. 

"If  you  want  to  go  out,  good  people,"  he  said,  "I  will 
open  the  gates  and  go  with  you;  but  do  not  pull  down  the 
book- walls." 

And  they  obeyed  Gentil,  because  they  loved  him,  and 
Gentil  led  them  out  of  the  city.  When  they  had  crossed 
the  first  green  valley,  they  found  the  city  of  Pastime 
empty,  not  a  creature  in  it!  and  broken  toys  in  the 
streets.  At  sight  of  the  toys,  the  poor  book-people  cried 
for  joy,  and  wanted  to  stop  and  play.  So  Gentil  left 
them  in  the  city,  and  went  on  alone  across  the  next 
green  valley.  But  the  city  of  Confection  was  crammed 
so  full  with  sick  child-people  belonging  to  Bonbon,  and 
with  Joujou's  hungry  ones,  that  Gentil  could  not  get  in 
at  the  gate.  So  he  wandered  about  in  the  green  valleys, 
very'  unhappy,  until  he  came  to  his  old  father's  palace. 
There  he  found  the  fool,  sitting  on  the  banks  of  the 
river. 

"O  fool,"  said  Gentil,  "I  wish  I  knew  what  my 
father  meant  us  to  do!" 

And  the  fool  tried  to  comfort  Gentil;  and  they  walked 
together  by  the  river  where  the  fool  had  made  the  boat 
of  the  will,  without  knowing  what  it  was.  They  walked 
a  long  way,  Gentil  crying,  and  the  fool  trying  to  com 
fort  him,  when  suddenly  the  fool  saw  the  boat  he  had 


THE   CHILDREN'S   CITIES  31 

made,  lying  among  some  green  rushes.  And  the  fool 
ran  to  fetch  it,  and  brought  it  to  show  Gentil.  And  Gen- 
til  saw  some  writing  on  the  boat,  and  knew  it  was  his 
father's  writing.  Then  Gentil  was  glad  indeed;  he  un 
folded  the  paper,  and  thereon  he  read  these  words  —  for 
a  good  king's  words  are  not  washed  away  by  water :  — 

"My  will  and  pleasure  is,  that  my  dearly  beloved 
sons,  Prince  Gentil,  Prince  Joujou,  and  Prince  Bonbon, 
should  all  reign  together  over  the  three  cities  which  I 
have  built.  But  there  are  only  enough  child-people  to 
fill  one  city ;  for  I  know  that  the  child-people  cannot  live 
always  in  one  city.  Therefore  let  the  three  princes,  with 
Gentil,  the  eldest,  wearing  the  crown,  lead  all  the  child- 
people  to  the  city  of  Lessonland  in  the  morning,  that 
the  bright  sun  may  shine  upon  their  lessons  and  make 
them  pleasant;  and  Gentil  to  set  the  tasks.  And  in  the 
afternoon  let  the  three  princes,  with  Joujou  wearing  the 
crown,  lead  all  the  child-people  to  the  city  of  Pastime,  to 
play  until  the  evening;  and  Joujou  to  lead  the  games. 
And  in  the  evening  let  the  three  princes,  with  Bonbon 
wearing  the  crown,  lead  all  the  child-people  to  the  city  of 
Confection,  to  drink  sweet  wine  and  pluck  fruit  off  the 
Christmas-trees  until  time  for  bed;  and  little  Bonbon 
to  cut  the  cake.  And  at  the  time  for  bed,  let  the  child- 
people  go  forth  into  the  green  valleys  and  sleep  upon  the 
beds  of  flowers;  for  in  Child  Country  it  is  always  spring." 

This  was  the  king's  will,  found  at  last;  and  Gentil, 
whose  great  long  lessons  had  made  him  wise  (though 
they  had  tired  him  too),  thought  the  will  the  cleverest 
that  was  ever  made.  And  he  hastened  to  the  city  of 
Confection,  and  knocked  at  the  gate  till  they  opened  it; 
and  he  found  all  the  people  sick  by  this  time,  and  very 


32  THE   CHILDREN'S   CITIES 

pleased  to  see  him,  for  they  thought  him  very  wise. 
And  Gen  til  read  the  will  in  a  loud  voice;  and  the  people 
clapped  their  hands  and  began  to  get  better  directly; 
and  Bonbon  called  to  them  to  lift  him  down  out  of  the 
tree  where  he  had  stuck;  and  Joujou  danced  for  joy. 

So  the  king's  will  was  obeyed.  And  in  the  morning 
the  people  learned  their  lessons,  and  afterwards  they 
played,  and  afterwards  they  enjoyed  their  feasts.  And 
at  bed-time  they  slept  upon  the  beds  of  flowers,  in  the 
green  valleys:  for  in  Child  Country  it  is  always  spring. 


THE  PLUNGE  INTO  THE   WILDERNESS 

BY  JOHN  MUIR 

IN  crossing  the  Atlantic  before  the  days  of  steamships, 
or  even  of  the  American  clippers,  the  voyages  made  in 
old-fashioned  sailing  vessels  were  very  long.  Ours  was 
six  weeks  and  three  days.  But,  because  we  had  no  les 
sons  to  get,  that  long  voyage  had  not  a  dull  moment  for 
us  boys. 

There  was  quite  a  large  number  of  emigrants  aboard, 
many  of  them  newly  married  couples,  and  the  advan 
tages  of  the  different  parts  of  the  New  World  they  ex 
pected  to  settle  in  were  often  discussed.  My  father 
started  with  the  intention  of  going  to  the  backwoods  of 
Upper  Canada.  Before  the  end  of  the  voyage,  however, 
he  was  persuaded  that  the  States  offered  superior  advan 
tages,  especially  Wisconsin  and  Michigan,  where  the 
land  was  said  to  be  as  good  as  in  Canada,  and  far  more 
easily  brought  under  cultivation;  for  in  Canada  the 
woods  were  so  close  and  heavy  that  a  man  might  wear 
out  his  life  in  getting  a  few  acres  cleared  of  trees  and 
stumps.  So  he  changed  his  mind  and  concluded  to  go  to 
one  of  the  Western  states. 

On  our  wavering  westward  way  a  grain-dealer  in 
Buffalo  told  father  that  most  of  the  wheat  he  handled 
came  from  Wisconsin;  and  this  influential  information 
finally  determined  my  father's  choice.  At  Milwaukee,  a 
farmer  who  had  come  in  from  the  country  near  Fort 


34    THE  PLUNGE   INTO  THE  WILDERNESS 

Winnebago  with  a  load  of  wheat  agreed  to  haul  us  and 
our  formidable  load  of  stuff  to  a  little  town  called  Kings 
ton,  for  thirty  dollars.  On  that  hundred-mile  journey, 
just  after  the  spring  thaw,  the  roads  over  the  prairies 
were  heavy  and  miry,  causing  no  end  of  lamentation, 
for  we  often  got  stuck  in  the  mud,  and  the  poor  farmer 
sadly  declared  that  never,  never  again  would  he  be 
tempted  to  try  to  haul  such  a  cruel,  heart-breaking, 
wagon-breaking,  horse-killing  load,  no,  not  for  a  hun 
dred  dollars. 

On  leaving  Scotland,  father,  like  many  other  home- 
seekers,  burdened  himself  with  far  too  much  luggage,  as 
if  all  America  were  still  a  wilderness  in  which  little  or 
nothing  could  be  bought.  One  of  his  big  iron-bound 
boxes  must  have  weighed  about  four  hundred  pounds, 
for  it  contained  an  old-fashioned  beam-scales  with  a 
complete  set  of  cast-iron  counterweights,  two  of  them 
fifty-six  pounds  each,  a  twenty-eight,  and  so  on,  down 
to  a  single  pound;  also  a  lot  of  iron  wedges,  carpenter's 
tools,  etc.  And  at  Buffalo,  as  if  on  the  very  edge  of  the 
wilderness,  he  gladly  added  to  his  burden  a  big  cast-iron 
stove,  with  pots  and  pans,  provisions  enough  to  stand  a 
long  siege,  and  a  scythe  and  cumbersome  cradle  for  cut 
ting  wheat,  all  of  which  he  succeeded  in  landing  in  the 
primeval  Wisconsin  woods. 

A  land  agent  at  Kingston  gave  father  a  note  to  a 
farmer  by  the  name  of  Alexander  Gray,  who  lived  on 
the  border  of  the  settled  part  of  the  country,  knew  the 
section-lines,  and  would  probably  help  him  to  find  a 
good  place  for  a  farm.  So  father  went  away  to  spy  out 
the  land,  and,  in  the  meantime,  left  us  children  in  Kings 
ton  in  a  rented  room. 


THE   PLUNGE   INTO  THE   WILDERNESS    35 

It  took  us  less  than  an  hour  to  get  acquainted  with 
some  of  the  boys  in  the  village;  we  challenged  them  to 
wrestle,  run  races,  climb  trees,  and  the  like,  and  in  a 
day  or  two  we  felt  at  home,  care-free  and  happy,  not 
withstanding  that  our  family  was  so  widely  divided. 
When  father  returned,  he  told  us  that  he  had  found  fine 
land  for  a  farm  in  sunny  open  woods  on  the  side  of  a 
lake,  and  that  a  team  of  three  yoke  of  oxen,  with  a  big 
wagon,  was  coming  to  haul  us  to  Mr.  Gray's  place. 

We  enjoyed  the  strange  ten-mile  ride  through  the 
woods  very  much,  wondering  how  the  great  oxen  could 
be  so  strong  and  wise  and  tame  as  to  pull  so  heavy  a 
load  with  no  other  harness  than  a  chain  and  a  crooked 
piece  of  wood  on  their  necks,  and  how  they  could  sway 
so  obediently  to  right  and  left,  past  roadside  trees  and 
stumps,  when  the  driver  said  haw  and  gee.  At  Mr. 
Gray's  house  father  again  left  us  for  a  few  days,  to  build 
a  shanty  on  the  quarter-section  he  had  selected  four 
or  five  miles  to  the  westward.  Meanwhile  we  enjoyed 
our  freedom  as  usual,  wandering  in  the  fields  and  mead 
ows,  looking  at  the  trees  and  flowers,  snakes  and  birds 
and  squirrels.  With  the  help  of  the  nearest  neighbors 
the  little  shanty  was  built  in  less  than  a  day,  after  the 
rough  bur-oak  logs  for  the  walls  and  the  white-oak 
boards  for  the  floor  and  roof  were  got  together. 

Soon  after  our  arrival  in  the  woods,  some  one  added  a 
cat  and  puppy  to  the  animals  father  had  bought.  The 
pup  was  a  common  cur,  though  very  uncommon  to  us: 
a  black-and-white  short-haired  mongrel  that  we  named 
Watch.  We  always  gave  him  a  pan  of  milk  in  the  even 
ing  just  before  we  knelt  in  family  worship,  while  daylight 
still  lingered  in  the  shanty;  and  instead  of  attending 


36    THE  PLUNGE  INTO   THE   WILDERNESS 

to  the  prayers,  I  too  often  studied  the  small  wild  crea 
tures  playing  round  us.  Field-mice  scampered  about  the 
cabin  as  if  it  had  been  built  for  them  alone,  and  their 
performances  were  very  amusing.  About  dusk,  on  one 
of  the  calm,  sultry  nights  so  grateful  to  moths  and  bee 
tles,  when  the  puppy  was  lapping  his  milk,  and  we  were 
on  our  knees,  in  through  the  door  came  a  heavy,  broad- 
shouldered  beetle  about  as  big  as  a  mouse;  and  after 
droning  and  booming  round  the  cabin  two  or  three 
times,  the  pan  of  milk,  showing  white  in  the  gloaming, 
caught  its  eyes  and,  taking  good  aim,  it  alighted  with  a 
slanting,  glinting  plash  in  the  middle  of  the  pan,  like  a 
duck  alighting  in  a  lake.  Baby  Watch,  having  never 
before  seen  anything  like  that  beetle,  started  back,  gaz 
ing  in  dumb  astonishment  and  fear  at  the  black  sprawl 
ing  monster  trying  to  swim.  Recovering  somewhat  from 
his  fright,  he  began  to  bark  at  the  creature,  and  ran 
round  and  round  his  milk-pan,  wouf-woufing,  gurring, 
growling,  like  an  old  dog  barking  at  a  wild-cat  or  a 
bear.  The  natural  astonishment  and  curiosity  of  that 
boy-dog  getting  his  first  entomological  lesson  in  this 
wonderful  world  was  so  immoderately  funny,  that  I  had 
great  difficulty  in  keeping  from  laughing  out  loud. 

Watch  never  became  a  first-rate  scholar,  though  he 
learned  more  than  any  stranger  would  judge  him  capa 
ble  of,  was  a  bold,  faithful  watch-dog,  and  in  his  prime 
a  grand  fighter,  able  to  whip  all  the  other  dogs  in  the 
neighborhood.  Comparing  him  with  ourselves,  we  soon 
learned  that,  although  he  could  not  read  books,  he 
could  read  faces,  was  a  good  judge  of  character,  always 
knew  what  was  going  on  and  what  we  were  about  to  do, 
and  liked  to  help  us.  We  could  run  almost  as  fast  as  he 


THE  PLUNGE  INTO  THE  WILDERNESS    37 

could,  see  about  as  far,  and  perhaps  hear  as  well,  but  in 
the  sense  of  smell  his  nose  was  incomparably  better  than 
ours. 

One  winter  morning  when  the  ground  was  covered  with 
snow,  I  noticed  that,  when  he  was  yawning  and  stretch 
ing  himself,  after  leaving  his  bed,  he  suddenly  caught 
the  scent  of  something  that  excited  him,  went  round  the 
corner  of  the  house,  and  looked  intently  to  the  west 
ward  across  a  tongue  of  land  that  we  called  West  Bank, 
eagerly  questioned  the  air  with  quivering  nostrils,  and 
bristled  up  as  if  he  felt  sure  that  there  was  something 
dangerous  in  that  direction  and  had  actually  caught 
sight  of  it.  Then  he  ran  toward  the  Bank,  and  I  followed 
him,  curious  to  see  what  his  nose  had  discovered. 

The  top  of  the  Bank  commanded  a  view  of  the  north 
end  of  our  lake  and  meadow,  and  when  we  got  there  we 
saw  an  Indian  hunter,  armed  with  a  long  spear,  going 
about  from  one  muskrat  cabin  to  another,  approaching 
cautiously,  careful  to  make  no  noise,  and  then  suddenly 
thrusting  his  spear  down  through  the  house.  If  well- 
aimed,  the  spear  went  through  the  poor  beaver-rat  as  it 
lay  cuddled  up  in  the  snug  nest  it  had  made  for  itself 
in  the  fall  with  so  much  far-seeing  care;  and  when  the 
hunter  felt  the  spear  quivering,  he  dug  down  the  mossy 
hut  with  his  tomahawk  and  secured  his  prey  —  the  flesh 
for  food,  and  the  skin  to  sell  for  a  dime  or  so.  This  was  a 
clear  object  lesson  on  dogs'  keenness  of  scent.  That  In 
dian  was  more  than  half  a  mile  away  across  a  wooded 
ridge.  Had  the  hunter  been  a  white  man,  I  suppose 
Watch  would  not  have  noticed  him. 

When  he  was  about  six  or  seven  years  old  he  not  only 
became  cross,  so  that  he  would  do  only  what  he  liked, 

1 4  3  7 15  5 


38    THE  PLUNGE   INTO  THE  WILDERNESS 

but  he  fell  on  evil  ways,  and  was  accused  by  the  neigh 
bors  who  had  settled  round  us  of  catching  and  devouring 
whole  broods  of  chickens,  some  of  them  only  a  day  or 
two  out  of  the  shell.  We  never  imagined  he  would  do 
anything  so  grossly  undoglike.  He  never  did  at  home. 
But  several  of  the  neighbors  declared  over  and  over 
again  that  they  had  caught  him  in  the  act,  and  insisted 
that  he  must  be  shot.  At  last,  in  spite  of  tearful  pro 
tests,  he  was  condemned  and  executed.  Father  exam 
ined  the  poor  fellow's  stomach  in  search  of  sure  evidence, 
and  discovered  the  heads  of  eight  chickens  that  he  had 
devoured  at  his  last  meal.  So  poor  Watch  was  killed 
simply  because  his  taste  for  chickens  was  too  much  like 
our  own. 

The  old  Scotch  fashion  of  whipping  for  every  act  of 
disobedience  or  of  simple,  playful  forgetfulness  was  still 
kept  up  in  the  wilderness,  and  of  course  many  of  those 
whippings  fell  upon  me.  Most  of  them  were  outrage 
ously  severe,  and  utterly  barren  of  fun.  But  here  is  one 
that  was  nearly  all  fun. 

Father  was  busy  hauling  lumber  for  the  frame  house 
that  was  to  be  got  ready  for  the  arrival  of  my  mother, 
sisters,  and  brother,  left  behind  in  Scotland.  One  morn 
ing,  when  he  was  ready  to  start  for  another  load,  his  ox- 
whip  was  not  to  be  found.  He  asked  me  if  I  knew  any 
thing  about  it.  I  told  him  I  did  n't  know  where  it  was; 
but  a  Scotch  conscience  compelled  me  to  confess  that, 
when  I  was  playing  with  it,  I  had  tied  it  to  Watch's  tail, 
and  that  he  ran  away,  dragging  it  through  the  grass,  and 
came  back  without  it.  "It  must  have  slipped  off  his 
tail,"  I  said,  and  so  I  did  n't  know  where  it  was. 

This  honest,  straightforward  little  story  made  father 


THE   PLUNGE   INTO  THE  WILDERNESS    39 

so  angry  that  he  exclaimed  with  heavy  foreboding  em 
phasis,  "The  very  deevil  's  in  that  boy!"  David,  who 
had  been  playing  with  me,  and  was  perhaps  about  as 
responsible  for  the  loss  of  the  whip  as  I  was,  said  never 
a  word,  for  he  was  always  prudent  enough  to  hold  his 
tongue  when  the  parental  weather  was  stormy,  and  so 
escaped  nearly  all  punishment.  And  strange  to  say,  this 
time  I  also  escaped,  all  except  a  terrible  scolding,  though 
the  thrashing  weather  seemed  darker  than  ever. 

As  if  unwilling  to  let  the  sun  see  the  shameful  job, 
father  took  me  into  the  cabin  where  the  storm  was  to 
fall,  and  sent  David  to  the  woods  for  a  switch.  While  he 
was  out  selecting  the  switch,  father  put  in  the  spare 
time  sketching  my  play- wickedness  in  awful  colors,  and, 
of  course,  referred  again  and  again  to  the  place  prepared 
for  bad  boys.  In  the  midst  of  this  terrible  word-storm, 
dreading  most  the  impending  thrashing,  I  whimpered 
that  I  was  only  playing  because  I  could  n't  help  it;  did 
n't  know  I  was  doing  wrong;  would  n't  do  it  again,  and 
so  forth.  When  this  miserable  dialogue  was  about 
exhausted,  father  became  impatient  with  my  brother 
for  taking  so  much  time  to  find  the  switch;  and  I  was 
equally  so,  for  I  wanted  to  have  the  thing  over  and  done 
with. 

At  last,  in  came  David,  a  picture  of  open-hearted 
innocence,  solemnly  dragging  a  young  bur-oak  sapling, 
and  handed  the  end  of  it  to  father,  saying  it  was  the 
best  switch  he  could  find.  It  was  an  awfully  heavy  one, 
about  two  and  a  half  inches  thick  at  the  butt  and  ten 
feet  long,  almost  big  enough  for  a  fence-pole.  There 
was  n't  room  enough  in  the  cabin  to  swing  it,  and  the 
moment  I  saw  it  I  burst  out  laughing  in  the  midst  of  my 


40    THE   PLUNGE   INTO  THE   WILDERNESS 

fears.  But  father  failed  to  see  the  fun  and  was  very 
angry  at  David,  heaved  the  bur-oak  outside,  and  pas 
sionately  demanded  his  reason  for  fetching"  sic  a  muckle 
rail  like  that  instead  o'  a  switch?  Do  ye  ca'  that  a 
switch?  I  have  a  gude  mind  to  thrash  you  instead  o' 
John." 

David,  with  demure  downcast  eyes,  looked  preter- 
naturally  righteous,  but  as  usual  prudently  answered 
never  a  word. 

It  was  a  hard  job  in  those  days  to  bring  up  Scotch 
boys  in  the  way  they  should  go;  and  poor  overworked 
father  was  determined  to  do  it  if  enough  of  the  right  kind 
of  switches  could  be  found.  But  this  time,  as  the  sun 
was  getting  high,  he  hitched  up  Tom  and  Jerry  and 
made  haste  to  the  Kingston  lumber-yard,  leaving  me 
unscathed  and  as  innocently  wicked  as  ever;  for  hardly 
had  father  got  fairly  out  of  sight  among  the  oaks  and 
hickories,  ere  all  our  troubles,  hell-threatenings,  and  ex 
hortations  were  forgotten  in  the  fun  we  had  lassoing  a 
stubborn  old  sow  and  laboriously  trying  to  teach  her  to 
go  reasonably  steady  in  rope  harness.  She  was  the  first 
hog  that  father  bought  to  stock  the  farm,  and  we  boys 
regarded  her  as  a  very  wonderful  beast.  In  a  few  weeks 
she  had  a  lot  of  pigs,  and  of  all  the  queer,  funny  animal 
children  we  had  yet  seen,  none  amused  us  more.  They 
were  so  comic  in  size  and  shape,  in  their  gait  and  ges 
tures  and  merry  sham  fights,  and  in  the  false  alarms  they 
got  up  for  the  fun  of  scampering  back  to  their  mother. 

After  her  darling  short-snouted  babies  were  about  a 
month  old,  she  took  them  out  to  the  woods  and  gradu 
ally  roamed  farther  and  farther  from  the  shanty  in 
search  of  acorns  and  roots.  One  afternoon  we  heard  a 


THE   PLUNGE  INTO  THE   WILDERNESS   41 

rifle-shot,  a  very  noticeable  thing,  as  we  had  no  near 
neighbors  as  yet.  We  thought  it  must  have  been  fired 
by  an  Indian,  on  the  trail  that  followed  the  right  bank 
of  the  Fox  River  between  Portage  and  Packwaukee  Lake 
and  passed  our  shanty  at  a  distance  of  about  three  quar 
ters  of  a  mile.  Just  a  few  minutes  after  that  shot  was 
heard,  along  came  the  poor  mother,  rushing  up  to  the 
shanty  for  protection,  with  her  pigs,  all  out  of  breath 
and  terror-stricken.  One  of  them  was  missing  and  we 
supposed,  of  course,  that  an  Indian  had  shot  it  for  food. 
Next  day,  I  discovered  a  blood-puddle  where  the  Indian 
trail  crossed  the  outlet  of  our  lake.  One  of  father's  hired 
men  told  us  that  the  Indians  thought  nothing  of  levying 
this  sort  of  blackmail  whenever  they  were  hungry. 
The  solemn  awe  and  fear  in  the  eyes  of  that  old  mother 
and  little  pigs  I  never  can  forget;  it  was  as  unmistakable 
and  deadly  a  fear  as  I  ever  saw  expressed  by  any  human 
eye,  and  corroborates  in  no  uncertain  way  the  oneness  of 
all  of  us. 

Coming  direct  from  school  in  Scotland,  while  we  were 
still  hopefully  ignorant  and  far  from  tame,  not  withstand 
ing  the  unnatural  profusion  of  teaching  and  thrashing 
lavished  upon  us,  getting  acquainted  with  the  animals 
about  us  was  a  never-failing  source  of  wonder  and 
delight.  At  first  my  father,  like  nearly  all  the  back 
woods  settlers,  bought  a  yoke  of  oxen  to  do  the  farm 
work;  and  as  field  after  field  was  cleared,  the  number 
was  gradually  increased  until  we  had  five  yoke.  These 
wise,  patient,  plodding  animals  did  all  the  ploughing, 
logging,  hauling,  and  hard  work  of  every  sort  for  the 
first  four  or  five  years;  and  never  having  seen  oxen  be 
fore,  we  looked  at  them  with  the  same  eager  freshness 


42   THE   PLUNGE  INTO  THE  WILDERNESS 

of  conception  as  at  the  wild  animals.  We  worked  with 
them,  sympathized  with  them  in  their  rest  and  toil  and 
play,  and  thus  learned  to  know  them  far  better  than 
we  should  have  done  had  we  been  only  trained  scientific 
naturalists. 

We  soon  learned  that  each  ox  and  cow  and  calf  had 
its  own  individual  character.  Old  white-faced  Buck,  one 
of  the  second  yoke  of  oxen  that  we  owned,  was  a  notably 
sagacious  fellow.  He  seemed  to  reason  sometimes  almost 
like  ourselves.  In  the  fall  we  fed  the  cattle  lots  of  pump- , 
kins,  and  had  to  split  them  open  so  that  mouthfuls  could 
be'readily  broken  off.  But  Buck  never  waited  for  us  to 
come  to  his  help.  The  others,  when  they  were  hungry 
and  impatient,  tried  to  break  through  the  hard  rind  with 
their  teeth,  but  seldom  with  success,  if  the  pumpkin 
was  full-grown.  Buck  never  wasted  time  in  this  mum 
bling,  slavering  way,  but  crushed  them  with  his  head. 
He  went  to  the  pile,  picked  out  a  good  one,  like  a  boy 
choosing  an  orange  or  apple,  rolled  it  down  on  to  the 
open  ground,  deliberately  knelt  in  front  of  it,  placed 
his  broad  flat  brow  on  top  of  it,  brought  his  weight  hard 
down  and  crushed  it,  then  quietly  arose  and  went  on 
with  his  meal  in  comfort.  Some  would  call  this  "in 
stinct,"  as  if  so-called  "blind  instinct"  must  necessarily 
make  an  ox  stand  on  its  head  to  break  pumpkins  when 
its  teeth  got  sore,  or  when  nobody  came  with  an  axe  to 
split  them.  Another  fine  ox  showed  his  skill  when  hun 
gry  by  opening  all  the  fences  that  stood  in  his  way  to 
the  corn-fields. 

When  we  went  to  Portage,  our  nearest  town,  about 
ten  or.  twelve  miles  from  the  farm,  it  would  oftentimes 
be  late  before  we  got  back;  and  in  the  summer-time,  in 


THE   PLUNGE   INTO  THE   WILDERNESS    43 

sultry,  rainy  weather,  the  clouds  were  full  of  sheet- 
lightning,  which  every  minute  or  two  would  suddenly 
illumine  the  landscape,  revealing  all  its  features,  the 
hills  and  valleys,  meadows  and  trees,  about  as  fully  and 
clearly  as  the  noonday  sunshine;  then  as  suddenly  the 
glorious  light  would  be  quenched,  making  the  darkness 
seem  denser  than  before.  On  such  nights  the  cattle  had 
to  find  the  way  home  without  any  help  from  us,  but 
they  never  got  off  the  track,  for  they  followed  it  by 
scent,  like  dogs.  Once  father,  returning  late  from  Port 
age  or  Kingston,  compelled  Tom  and  Jerry,  our  first  oxen, 
to  leave  the  dim  track,  imagining  they  must  be  going 
wrong.  At  last  they  stopped  and  refused  to  go  farther. 
Then  father  unhitched  them  from  the  wagon,  took  hold 
of  Tom's  tail,  and  was  thus  led  straight  to  the  shanty. 
Next  morning  he  set  out  to  seek  his  wagon,  and  found  it 
on  the  brow  of  a  steep  hill  above  an  impassable  swamp. 
As  I  was  the  eldest  boy,  I  had  the  care  of  our  first 
span  of  work-horses.  Their  names  were  Nob  and  Nell. 
Nob  was  very  intelligent,  and  even  affectionate,  and 
could  learn  almost  anything.  Nell  was  entirely  different, 
balky  and  stubborn,  though  we  managed  to  teach  her  a 
good  many  circus  tricks;  but  she  never'seemed  to  like  to 
play  with  us  in  anything  like  an  affectionate  way  as 
Nob  did.  We  turned  them  out  one  day  into  the  pasture, 
and  an  Indian,  hiding  in  the  brush  that  had  sprung  up 
after  the  grass-fires  had  been  put  out,  managed  to  catch 
Nob,  tied  a  rope  to  her  jaw  for  a  bridle,  rode  her  to 
Green  Bay,  seventy-five  or  a  hundred  miles  away,  and 
tried  to  sell  her  for  fifteen  dollars.  All  our  hearts  were 
sore,  as  if  one  of  the  family  had  been  lost.  We  hunted 
everywhere,  and  could  not  at  first  imagine  what  had 


44   THE  PLUNGE  INTO  THE  WILDERNESS 

become  of  her.  We  discovered  her  track  where  the  fence 
was  broken  down,  and  following  it  for  a  few  miles,  made 
sure  the  track  was  Nob's;  and  a  neighbor  told  us  he  had 
seen  an  Indian  riding  fast  through  the  woods  on  a  horse 
that  looked  like  Nob.  But  we  could  find  no  further  trace 
of  her,  until  a  month  or  two  after  she  was  lost  and  we 
had  given  up  hope  of  ever  seeing  her  again.  Then  we 
learned  that  she  had  been  taken  from  an  Indian  by  a 
farmer  at  Green  Bay,  because  he  saw  that  she  had  been 
shod  and  had  worked  in  harness.  So  when  the  Indian 
tried  to  sell  her  the  farmer  said,  "  You  are  a  thief.  That 
is  a  white  man's  horse.  You  stole  her." 

"No,"  said  the  Indian,  "I  brought  her  from  Prairie 
du  Chien,  and  she  has  always  been  mine." 

The  man,  pointing  to  her  feet  and  the  marks  of  the 
harness,  said,  "You  are  lying.  I  will  take  that  horse 
away  from  you  and  put  her  in  my  pasture,  and  if  you 
come  near  it  I  will  set  the  dogs  on  you." 

Then  he  advertised  her.  One  of  our  neighbors  hap 
pened  to  see  the  advertisement  and  brought  us  the  glad 
news,  and  great  was  our  rejoicing  when  father  brought 
her  home.  That  Indian  must  have  treated  her  with  ter 
rible  cruelty,  for  when  I  was  riding  her  through  the  pas 
ture  several  years  afterward,  looking  for  another  horse 
that  we  wanted  to  catch,  as  we  approached  the  place 
where  she  had  been  captured,  she  stood  stock-still,  gaz 
ing  through  the  bushes,  fearing  the  Indian  might  still  be 
hiding  there  ready  to  spring;  and  so  excited  that  she 
trembled,  and  her  heart-beats  were  so  loud  that  I  could 
hear  them  distinctly  when  I  was  sitting  on  her  back, 
boomp,  boomp,  boomp,  like  the  drumming  of  a  partridge. 
So  vividly  had  she  remembered  her  terrible  experiences. 


THE  BLUE  AND  THE   GRAY 

BY  FRANCIS  MILES  FINCH 

BY  the  flow  of  the  inland  river, 

Whence  the  fleets  of  iron  have  fted, 
Where  the  blades  of  the  grave-grass  quiver, 
Asleep  are  the  ranks  of  the  dead,  — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day,  — 
Under  the  one,  the  Blue; 
Under  the  other,  the  Gray. 

These  in  the  robings  of  glory, 

Those  in  the  gloom  of  defeat, 
All  with  the  battle-blood  gory, 
In  the  dusk  of  eternity  meet,  — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day,  — 
Under  the  laurel,  the  Blue; 
Under  the  willow,  the  Gray. 

From  the  silence  of  sorrowful  hours 

The  desolate  mourners  go, 
Lovingly  laden  with  flowers 

Alike  for  the  friend  and  the  foe,  — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day,  — 
Under  the  roses,  the  Blue; 
Under  the  lilies,  the  Gray. 


46     THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY 

So  with  an  equal  splendor 

The  morning  sun-rays  fall, 
With  a  touch,  impartially  tender, 
On  the  blossoms  blooming  for  all,  — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day, 
Broidered  with  gold,  the  Blue; 
Mellowed  with  gold,  the  Gray. 

So,  when  the  Summer  calleth, 
On  forest  and  field  of  grain 
With  an  equal  murmur  falleth 
The  cooling  drip  of  the  rain, 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day,  — - 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Blue;  " 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Gray. 

Sadly,  but  not  with  upbraiding, 
The  generous  deed  was  done; 
In  the  storm  of  the  years  that  are  fading, 
No  braver  battle  was  won. 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day,  — 
Under  the  blossoms,  the  Blue, 
Under  the  garlands,  the  Gray. 

No  more  shall  the  war-cry  sever, 

Or  the  winding  river  be  red; 
They  banish  our  anger  forever 

When  they  laurel  the  graves  of  our  dead! 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day,  — 
Love  and  tears  for  the  Blue, 
Tears  and  love  for  the  Gray. 


A  DAKOTA  BLIZZARD 

THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 

As  the  time  for  blizzards  comes  round  again,  I  pro 
pose  to  invite  the  Club  to  meet  at  our  camp  in  Rosebud 
Agency,  southern  Dakota.  To  prepare  the  minds  of  the 
members,  let  me  recall  our  experience  of  last  January. 
We  knew  before  we  got  out  of  bed,  in  this  little  govern 
ment  schoolhouse,  that  the  most  awful  storm  we  had 
ever  witnessed  was  imminent.  Lilia  drew  the  curtain 
back  from  the  window  by  the  bed,  to  see  if  it  were  time 
to  get  up,  and  her  exclamation  brought  me  to  the  win 
dow  at  once.  The  sky  was  inky.  In  a  few  minutes,  the 
storm  began,  and  in  half  an  hour  it  was  at  its  height. 

Lilia  ventured  a  few  yards  out  of  the  front  door  at  its 
beginning,  and  was  near  not  getting  back.  The  wind 
struck  her  with  such  violence  as  to  bring  her  head  down 
to  a  level  with  her  knees,  and  take  away  her  breath. 
She  said  that  she  was  near  falling  on  her  face,  and  she 
knew  that  if  she  fell  she  would  not  get  up  again.  She 
got  to  the  house,  bent  at  the  angle  into  which  the  wind 
had  forced  her. 

The  storm  raged,  without  one  moment's  abatement 
or  lull,  during  the  whole  day  and  far  into  the  night, 
when  we  fell  asleep.  At  first  the  little  frame  building 
creaked  and  shivered  like  a  ship  at  sea,  and  we  won 
dered  how  anything  constructed  by  the  hand  of  man 
could  stand  against  that  wind.  After  the  first  half  hour, 


48  A  DAKOTA  BLIZZARD 

it  was  impossible  to  distinguish  the  sound  of  groaning 
timbers,  for  the  ears  were  filled  with  the  rush  of  the  ele 
ments.  It  was  like  the  roar  and  surging  of  a  mighty 
ocean. 

We  were  glad  that  we  were  not  the  first  inhabitants, 
for  we  should  have  thought  that  the  earth  had  slipped 
her  orbit  and  was  rushing  through  space,  or  that  the 
Last  Judgment  was  about  to  be  ushered  in. 

Being  in  the  house,  we  could  see  out  a  few  yards  on 
one  side  —  the  side  from  which  the  storm  did  not  come. 
On  the  other  three  sides,  the  snow  beat  and  came  in 
(though  the  house  is  close  and  tight),  and  went  half 
way  across  the  schoolroom.  It  hung  in  a  beautiful 
fringe,  several  inches  long,  from  the  drying-rope 
stretched  across  the  room,  and  festooned  the  maps  on 
the  walls,  and  finally  blocked  up  the  windows  till  they 
were  as  impenetrable  as  snow-banks. 

It  was  a  comfort  to  us  to  believe,  as  we  then  did,  that 
this  greatest  of  all  the  blizzards  had  set  in  as  early  in 
other  camps  as  in  ours,  and  that  no  human  being  was 
exposed  to  its  fury.  No  sun  had  risen  over  our  heads  on 
that  day,  and  we  had  rung  no  school-bell ;  we  could  not 
know  that  bells  were  ringing  from  many  a  prairie  school- 
house,  and  that  the  fair  promise  of  the  day  was  luring 
men,  women,  and  children  to  their  doom.  We  were  gaz 
ing,  awestruck  but  calm,  from  our  window,  and  saying 
that  we  wished  for  a  photographer  to  picture  forth  the 
arctic  interior  of  a  government  schoolhouse  in  a  Dakota 
blizzard,  and  for  an  artist,  great  in  portraying  Nature's 
moods,  to  immortalize  on  canvas  the  tempest-tossed 
prairie  without. 

On  the  afternoon  preceding  this  destructive  day,  no 


A  DAKOTA  BLIZZARD  49 

snow  fell,  but  the  force  of  the  wind  was  so  great  that  it 
lifted  up  from  the  boundless  prairie  the  accumulated 
drifts  of  weeks,  and  carried  them  along  in  great  waves, 
so  that  the  whole  earth  seemed  in  motion  and  rising 
heavenward.  The  outline  of  these  vast  billows  and  the 
intervening  troughs,  as  seen  against  the  horizon,  was 
the  most  impressive  sight  that  had  ever  met  our  eyes. 

On  the  morning  of  the  13th,  the  mercury  registered 
twenty -five  degrees  below  zero,  and  the  wind  was  blow 
ing  cruelly.  The  drifts  between  us  and  the  village  were 
so  deep  that  we  thought  it  unsafe  to  ring  for  the  children. 
But  they  came  over  the  half  mile,  through  drifts  waist- 
deep  to  large  children,  and  the  two  faithful  policemen, 
Stiff  Arm  and  Cut  Foot,  came  to  see  how  we  had  got 
through  the  blizzard.  (Cut  Foot's  name  was  a  sore 
trouble  to  us  when  first  we  came  to  these  Indians. 
When  I  called  him  or  spoke  to  him,  Cut  Throat  seemed 
invariably  to  slip  off  my  tongue.  Lilia  objected  seri 
ously,  but  it  was  not  till  after  some  very  plain  words  and 
several  private  rehearsals,  that  I  finally  got  the  right 
name  fixed  in  my  head.) 

The  schoolroom  was  not  to  be  thought  of  on  that 
bitter  day,  and  we  brought  the  children  and  the  police 
men  into  our  bedroom  to  thaw  out.  We  ran  the  mercury 
up  to  one  hundred  and  ten  degrees  within  two  feet  of 
the  stove ;  at  a  distance  of  eight  feet,  it  was  ninety-five 
degrees  lower.  Not  one  of  the  children  uttered  a  sound 
of  complaint;  but  the  big  tears  rolled  silently  down  the 
swollen  cheeks  of  one  of  the  little  girls  when  the  genial 
warmth  of  the  room  began  to  make  her  comfortable. 

Presently  the  third  policeman,  One  Feather,  rode  up 
from  the  Agency,  fifteen  miles  distant.  His  nose  was 


50  A  DAKOTA  BLIZZARD 

badly  frosted,  and  his  usually  thin  face  was  swollen  past 
recognition.  As  he  had  assured  us,  on  our  first  coming, 
that  he  wished  to  be  a  "sister"  to  us,  we  put  him  in  the 
warmest  corner. 

Our  fifteen-mile-off  neighbor,  the  young  teacher  at 
the  next  camp,  stepped  in  one  evening  to  ask  if  we  could 
give  him  a  bed  for  the  night.  He  had  been  trying  all  day 
to  get  to  his  camp,  and  had  consumed  four  hours  in 
traveling  one  mile  and  a  half.  His  plucky  little  Indian 
pony  dragged  the  wagon  through  the  heavy  drifts  by 
main  force,  the  wheels  not  turning,  and  the  horse  wad 
dling  where  he  could  not  walk.  The  faithful  creature 
was  quite  exhausted.  A  sheet  of  ice  inclosed  his  nose, 
and  an  icicle  more  than  a  foot  long  hung  from  it.  This 
gentle  animal,  during  the  blizzard  of  the  twelfth,  not 
only  broke  his  halter,  but  pawed  down  a  thick  stable- 
door,  with  hinges  a  foot  long.  His  master  went  out  into 
the  storm  to  see  how  he  was  faring.  He  spent  two  hours 
looking  for  him,  though  he  was  only  a  few  yards  away. 
When  found,  he  was  a  mass  of  ice,  his  eyes  nearly  closed 
by  it,  and  a  giant  icicle  hanging  from  his  nose.  Mr. 
Warner's  own  eyelashes  froze  every  time  he  winked, 
and  he  had  to  hold  his  hand  to  his  face  and  send  the  hot 
breath  up  to  them  before  he  could  open  them  again. 
We  hear  that  this  is  common  enough  in  Dakota,  but 
Lilia  and  I  don't  stay  out  long  enough  to  wink. 


MY  REAL  ESTATE 

THE   CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 

MOST  of  us  cherish  a  more  or  less  concealed  desire  to 
own  some  one  special  object  just  beyond  our  financial 
reach.  Perhaps  you  have  always  wanted  a  steam 
yacht;  your  neighbor  confessed  to  me  the  other  night 
that  from  boyhood  he  had  longed  to  possess  a  locomotive. 
"  What  a  king  among  pets  that  would  be ! "  he  exclaimed ; 
then  laughed,  shamefacedly,  to  assure  me  that  he  was 
joking.  But  I  had  seen  the  gleam  in  his  eyes,  and  knew 
he  meant  it.  I  have  a  friend  whose  modest  salary  barely 
suffices  for  the  support  of  the  family;  and  I  happen  to 
know  that  his  dearest  ambition  for  years  has  been  to 
own  a  Kelmscott  Chaucer.  If  the  prices  for  the  output 
of  that  celebrated  press  continue  to  fall,  as  they  have 
fallen  in  recent  auctions,  his  wish  may  yet  be  gratified. 
With  this  preamble,  let  me  confess  that  my  pet  desire 
has  long  been  to  possess  a  piece  of  real  estate ;  and  that 
I  am  now  actually  a  real-estate  owner  —  in  an  odd  kind 
of  way. 

This  is  how  it  happened.  At  the  foot  of  a  certain 
slope  of  rough  pasture-land,  in  one  of  the  southern 
counties  of  Maine,  is  a  brook  where  I  often  fished  when 
a  boy.  So  familiar  to  me  are  its  banks,  that  on  sleepless 
nights  I  have  more  than  once  fished  the  stream,  in 
memory,  for  a  mile  or  more,  recalling  every  rapid, 
pool,  and  mimic  cascade,  and  pausing  now  and  then  to 


52  MY  REAL  ESTATE 

take  a  trout  from  the  spots  where  in  the  old  days  I  was 
surest  of  success.  My  father  was  my  chosen  companion 
for  these  little  fishing  excursions;  and  when  at  last  we 
had  wound  up  our  lines,  and  shouldered  or  thrown 
away  our  rods  (cut  from  some  alders  at  the  brookside), 
we  made  our  way  wearily  but  happily  back,  up  the  rising 
ground,  through  tangled  thickets  of  pine  and  juniper 
and  sweet-fern,  fragrant  in  the  hot  forenoon  sunshine, 
toward  the  old  farmhouse,  a  mile  away. 

Half-way  to  the  house,  the  path  brought  us  to  a 
huge  pine,  some  six  feet  in  diameter,  standing  by  itself 
on  a  grassy  hillock  of  the  pasture.  Here,  in  the  grateful 
shade  of  the  far-spreading  green  boughs,  with  their 
soft  music  above  us,  we  always  threw  ourselves  down 
on  the  grass  and  rested  before  resuming  our  journey 
homeward.  It  is  many  years  since  that  dear  and  gentle 
comrade  passed  from  my  sight;  but  at  long  intervals  I 
find  time  to  fish  the  little  trout-stream,  to  inhale  the 
fragrance  of  the  sweet-fern,  and  to  pause  under  the  old 
pine  and  listen  to  its  songs  of  eternity. 

Not  long  ago  I  heard  that  the  owner  of  the  pasture 
had  decided  to  sell  that  tree  to  a  lumber  firm.  My  re 
solve  was  quickly  taken.  Would  he  accept  —  I  named 
a  small  sum  —  and  leave  the  tree  standing,  as  my  sole 
property?  Well,  he  "reckoned  he  would.  'T  was  more  'n 
the  lumber  company  offered."  The  money  was  paid 
down  and  the  deed  was  solemnly  drawn  up,  signed, 
sealed,  and  passed.  The  pine  tree  was,  and  is,  my  own, 
and  constitutes  my  sole  "real"  possession.  Just  what 
my  legal  rights  are  in  the  premises,  I  am  sure  I  do  not 
know.  Not  an  inch  of  the  surrounding  land  is  mine  - 
only  the  tree,  above  and  below  ground:  the  great, 


MY  REAL  ESTATE  53 

knotty  trunk;  the  far-spreading,  singing  boughs,  tas- 
seled  with  green,  and  the  strong  roots,  an  inverted 
tree  underground. 

Tenants  I  have,  a-plenty.  Never  yet,  I  believe,  have 
I  looked  up  into  the  shining  galleries  and  sun-lighted 
halls  of  my  building  not  made  with  hands,  but  I  have 
caught  glimpses  of  a  flitting  wing,  or  heard  a  low, 
sweet  warble  from  some  hidden  chamber  high  up  in  the 
topmost  stories.  Even  in  winter,  a  sable-plumed  visitor 
pauses  occasionally  on  its  lofty  window-ledges,  ere  he 
utters  a  single,  startled  "Caw!"  and  sails  away  across 
the  snowy  pasture,  to  a  remoter  covert  beyond  the 
marsh.  Or,  perchance,  the  stranger  is  decked  in  colors 
of  the  December  sky  and  earth.  He  raises  his  saucy 
crest,  and,  by  way  of  leaving  his  visiting-card,  screams 
at  me,  "Jay!  Jay!"  To-day  a  flock  of  snow-birds, 
cloud-colored  and  wintry,  drift  through  the  lower 
branches  like  wind-swept  leaves  from  the  neighboring 
oak. 

As  darkness  falls,  the  birds  nestle  in  shadowed  nooks, 
or  seek  more  sheltered  resting-places  for  their  little  feet. 
Then  enters  another  tenant,  even  more  constant  than 
they.  It  is  the  night  wind;  and  through  the  long  hours 
when  the  moonlight  is  steel-bright  on  the  crisp  snow, 
and  the  stars  are  alight  above,  the  sleepless  wind  mur 
murs  and  chants  its  surf -songs  in  the  swaying  branches, 
the  mysterious  depths  of  the  great  pine. 


HAVE  you  seen  Annie  and  Kitty, 
Two  merry  children  of  mine? 

All  that  is  winning  and  pretty 
Their  little  persons  combine. 

Annie  is  kissing  and  clinging 
Dozens  of  times  in  a  day  — 

Chattering,  laughing,  and  singing, 
Romping,  and  running  away. 

Annie  knows  all  of  her  neighbors, 

Dainty  and  dirty  alike  — 
Learns  all  their  talk,  and,  "Be  jabers,' 

Says  she  "adores  little  Mike!" 

Annie  goes  mad  for  a  flower, 
Eager  to  pluck  and  destroy; 

Cuts  paper  dolls  by  the  hour; 
Always  her  model  —  a  boy ! 

Annie  is  full  of  her  fancies, 

Tells  most  remarkable  lies 
(Innocent  little  romances), 

Startling  in  one  of  her  size. 


MY   CHILDREN  55 

Three  little  prayers  we  have  taught  her, 

Graded  from  winter  to  spring; 
Oh,  you  should  listen  my  daughter 

Saying  them  all  in  a  string! 

Kitty  —  ah,  how  my  heart  blesses 

Kitty,  my  lily,  my  rose! 
Wary  of  all  my  caresses, 

Chary  of  all  she  bestows. 

Kitty  loves  quietest  places, 

Whispers  sweet  sermons  to  chairs, 
And,  with  the  gravest  of  faces, 

Teaches  old  Carlo  his  prayers. 

Matronly,  motherly  creature! 

Oh,  what  a  doll  she  has  built  — 
Guiltless  of  figure  or  feature  — • 

Out  of  her  own  little  quilt ! 

Nought  must  come  near  it  to  wake  it; 

Noise  must  not  give  it  alarm; 
And  when  she  sleeps,  she  must  take  it 

Into  her  bed,  on  her  arm. 

Kitty  is  shy  of  a  caller, 

Uttering  never  a  word; 
But  when  alone  in  the  parlor, 

Talks  to  herself  like  a  bird. 

Kitty  is  contrary,  rather, 

And,  with  a  comical  smile, 
Mutters,  "I  won't,"  to  her  father  — 

Eyeing  him  slyly  the  while. 


56  MY   CHILDREN 

Loving  one  more  than  the  other 
Is  n't  the  thing,  I  confess; 

And  I  observe  that  their  mother 
Makes  no  distinction  in  dress. 

Preference  must  be  improper 
In  a  relation  like  this; 

I  would  n't  toss  up  a  copper  — 
Kitty,  come,  give  me  a  kiss! 


A  STRUGGLE  FOR  LIFE 

BY  THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 

ONE  morning  last  April,  as  I  was  passing  through 
Boston  Common,  which  lies  pleasantly  between  my 
residence  and  my  office,  I  met  a  gentleman  lounging 
along  the  Mall.  I  am  generally  preoccupied  when  walk 
ing,  and  often  thrid  my  way  through  crowded  streets 
without  distinctly  observing  a  single  soul.  But  this 
man's  face  forced  itself  upon  me,  and  a  very  singular 
face  it  was.  His  eyes  were  faded,  and  his  hair,  which  he 
wore  long,  was  flecked  with  gray.  His  hair  and  eyes,  if 
I  may  say  so,  were  seventy  years  old,  the  rest  of  him 
not  thirty.  The  youthfulness  of  his  figure,  the  elasticity 
of  his  gait,  and  the  venerable  appearance  of  his  head, 
were  incongruities  that  drew  more  than  one  pair  of 
curious  eyes  toward  him.  He  was  evidently  an  Ameri 
can,  —  the  New  England  cut  of  countenance  is  unmis 
takable,  —  evidently  a  man  who  had  seen  something  of 
the  world;  but  strangely  old  and  young. 

Before  reaching  the  Park  Street  gate,  I  had  taken  up 
the  thread  of  thought  which  he  had  unconsciously 
broken;  yet  throughout  the  day  this  old  young  man, 
with  his  un wrinkled  brow  and  silvered  locks,  glided  in 
like  a  phantom  between  me  and  my  duties. 

The  next  morning  I  again  encountered  him  on  the 
Mall.  He  was  resting  lazily  on  the  green  rails,  watching 
two  little  sloops  in  distress,  which  two  ragged  ship- 


58  A  STRUGGLE  FOR  LIFE 

owners  had  consigned  to  the  mimic  perils  of  the  Pond. 
The  vessels  lay  becalmed  in  the  middle  of  the  ocean,  dis 
playing  a  tantalizing  lack  of  sympathy  with  the  frantic 
helplessness  of  the  owners  on  shore.  As  the  gentleman 
observed  their  dilemma,  a  light  came  into  his  faded 
eyes,  then  died  out,  leaving  them  drearier  than  before. 
I  wondered  if  he,  too,  in  his  time,  had  sent  out  ships  that 
drifted  and  drifted  and  never  came  tc  port;  and  if  these 
poor  toys  were  to  him  types  of  his  own  losses. 

"I  would  like  to  know  that  man's  story,"  I  said,  half 
aloud,  halting  in  one  of  those  winding  paths  which 
branch  off  from  the  quietness  of  the  Pond,  and  end  in 
the  rush  and  tumult  of  Tremont  Street. 

"Would  you?"  replied  a  voice  at  my  side.  I  turned 

and  faced  Mr.  H ,  a  neighbor  of  mine,  who  laughed 

heartily  at  finding  me  talking  to  myself.  "Well,"  he 
added  reflectingly,  "I  can  tell  you  this  man's  story;  and 
if  you  will  match  the  narrative  with  anything  as  curi 
ous,  I  shall  be  glad  to  hear  it." 

"You  know  him,  then?" 

"  Yes,  and  no.  I  happened  to  be  in  Paris  when  he  was 
buried." 

"Buried!" 

"Well,  strictly  speaking,  not  buried;  but  something 
quite  like  it.  If  you  've  a  spare  half-hour,"  continued  my 
interlocutor,  "we'll  sit  on  this  bench,  and  I  will  tell  you 
all  I  know  of  an  affair  that  made  some  noise  in  Paris  a 
couple  of  years  ago.  The  gentleman  himself,  standing 
yonder,  will  serve  as  a  sort  of  frontispiece  to  the  romance 
—  a  full-page  illustration,  as  it  were." 

The  following  pages  contain  the  story  that  Mr.  H 

related  to  me.  While  he  was  telling  it,  a  gentle  wind 


A  STRUGGLE   FOR  LIFE  59 

arose;  the  miniature  sloops  drifted  feebly  about  the 
ocean ;  the  wretched  owners  flew  from  point  to  point,  as 
the  deceptive  breeze  promised  to  waft  the  barks  to 
either  shore ;  the  early  robins  trilled  now  and  then  from 
the  newly  fringed  elms;  and  the  old  young  man  leaned 
on  the  rail  in  the  sunshine,  wearily,  little  dreaming  that 
two  gossips  were  discussing  his  affairs  within  twenty 
yards  of  him. 

Three  people  were  sitting  in  a  chamber  whose  one 
large  window  overlooked  the  Place  Vendome.  M.  Do- 
rine,  with  back  half  turned  on  the  other  two  occupants 
of  the  apartment,  was  reading  the  "Moniteur,"  paus 
ing  from  time  to  time  to  wipe  his  glasses,  and  taking 
scrupulous  pains  not  to  glance  towards  the  lounge  at  his 
right,  on  which  were  seated  Mademoiselle  Dorine  and  a 
young  American  gentleman,  whose  handsome  face 
rather  frankly  told  his  position  in  the  family.  There  was 
not  a  happier  man  in  Paris  that  afternoon  than  Philip 
Wentworth.  Life  had  become  so  delicious  to  him  that 
he  shrunk  from  looking  beyond  to-day.  What  could  the 
future  add  to  his  full  heart?  what  might  it  not  take 
away?  In  certain  natures  the  deepest  joy  has  always 
something  of  melancholy  in  it,  a  presentiment,  a  fleeting 
sadness,  a  feeling  without  a  name.  Wentworth  was 
conscious  of  this  subtile  shadow,  that  night,  when  he 
rose  from  the  lounge,  and  thoughtfully  held  Julie's  hand 
to  his  lip  for  a  moment  before  parting.  A  careless  ob 
server  would  not  have  thought  him,  as  he  was,  the  hap 
piest  man  in  Paris. 

M.  Dorine  laid  down  his  paper  and  came  forward. 
"If  the  house,"  he  said,  "is  such  as  M.  Martin  describes 


60  A  STRUGGLE   FOR  LIFE 

it,  I  advise  you  to  close  with  him  at  once.  I  would 
accompany  you,  Philip,  but  the  truth  is,  I  am  too  sad  at 
losing  this  little  bird  to  assist  you  in  selecting  a  cage  for 
her.  Remember,  the  last  train  for  town  leaves  at  five. 
Be  sure  not  to  miss  it;  for  we  have  seats  for  M.  Sardou's 
new  comedy  to-morrow  night.  By  to-morrow  night," 
he  added  laughingly,  "little  Julie  here  will  be  an  old 
lady  —  't  is  such  an  age  from  now  until  then." 

The  next  morning  the  train  bore  Philip  to  one  of  the 
loveliest  spots  within  thirty  miles  of  Paris.  An  hour's 
walk  through  green  lanes  brought  him  to  M.  Martin's 
estate.  In  a  kind  of  dream  the  young  man  wandered 
from  room  to  room,  inspected  the  conservatory,  the 
stables,  the  lawns,  the  strip  of  woodland  through  which 
a  merry  brook  sang  to  itself  continually;  and,  after  din 
ing  with  M.  Martin,  completed  the  purchase,  and  turned 
his  steps  toward  the  station,  just  in  time  to  catch  the 
express  train. 

As  Paris  stretched  out  before  him,  with  its  million 
lights  twinkling  in  the  early  dusk,  and  its  sharp  spires 
here  and  there  pricking  the  sky,  it  seemed  to  Philip  as 
if  years  had  elapsed  since  he  left  the  city.  On  reaching 
Paris  he  drove  to  his  hotel,  where  he  found  several  let 
ters  lying  on  the  table.  He  did  not  trouble  himself  even 
to  glance  at  their  superscriptions,  as  he  threw  aside  his 
traveling  surtout  for  a  more  appropriate  dress. 

If,  in  his  impatience  to  see  Mademoiselle  Dorine,  the 
cars  had  appeared  to  walk,  the  fiacre  which  he  had 
secured  at  the  station  appeared  to  creep.  At  last  it 
turned  into  the  Place  Vendome,  and  drew  up  before  M. 
Dorine's  residence.  The  door  opened  as  Philip's  foot 
touched  the  first  step.  The  servant  silently  took  his 


A  STRUGGLE   FOR  LIFE  61 

cloak  and  hat,  with  a  special  deference,  Philip  thought; 
but  was  he  not  now  one  of  the  family? 

"M.  Dorine,"  said  the  servant  slowly,  "is  unable  to 
see  monsieur  at  present.  He  wishes  monsieur  to  be 
shown  up  to  the  salon." 

"Is  mademoiselle  — 

"Yes,  monsieur." 

"Alone?" 

"Alone,  monsieur,"  repeated  the  man,  looking  curi 
ously  at  Philip,  who  could  scarcely  repress  an  exclama 
tion  of  pleasure. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  such  n  r^—'1 
accorded  I"-— 


this  \v 
after!   J:A 
which  he  dei 
and  stealthily  ox 

The  room  was  a. 
stood  a  slim  black  cas 
a  crucifix,  and  some  whiu 
by.  Julie  Dorine  was  dead. 

When  M.  Dorine  heard  thv 
rang  through  the  silent  house,  IK 
brary,  and  found  Philip  standing  u 
middle  of  the  chamber. 

It  was  not  until  long  afterwards  that 
learned  the  details  of  the  calamity  that  haa 


62  A  STRUGGLE   FOR  LIFE 

him.  On  the  previous  night  Mademoiselle  Dorine  had 
retired  to  her  room  in  seemingly  perfect  health.  She 
dismissed  her  maid,  with  a  request  to  be  awakened  early 
the  next  morning.  At  the  appointed  hour  the  girl  en 
tered  the  chamber.  Mademoiselle  Dorine  was  sitting 
in  an  arm-chair,  apparently  asleep.  The  candle  had 
burned  down  to  the  socket;  a  book  lay  half  open  on  the 
carpet  at  her  feet.  The  girl  started  when  she  saw  that 
the  bed  had  not  been  occupied,  and  that  her  mistress 
still  wore  an  evening  dress.  She  rushed  to  Mademoi 
selle  Dorine's  side.  It  was  not  slumber.  It  was  death. 

Two  messages  were  at  once  despatched  to  Philip,  one 

to  the  station  at  G ,  the  other  to  his  hotel.  The  first 

missed  him  on  the  road,  the  second  he  had  neglected  to 
open.  On  his  arrival  at  M.  Dorine's  house,  the  servant, 
under  the  supposition  that  Wentworth  had  been  ad 
vised  of  Mademoiselle  Dorine's  death,  broke  the  intel 
ligence  with  awkward  cruelty,  by  showing  him  directly 
to  the  salon. 

Mademoiselle  Dorine's  wealth,  her  beauty,  the  sud 
denness  of  her  death,  and  the  romance  that  had  in  some 
way  attached  itself  to  her  love  for  the  young  American, 
drew  crowds  to  witness  the  funeral  ceremonies,  which 
took  place  in  the  church  in  rue  d'Aguesseau.  The  body 
was  to  be  laid  in  M.  Dorine's  tomb,  in  the  cemetery  of 
Montmartre. 

This  tomb  requires  a  few  words  of  description.  First, 
there  was  a  grating  of  filigraned  iron;  through  this  you 
looked  into  a  small  vestibule  or  hall,  at  the  end  of  which 
was  a  massive  door  of  oak  opening  upon  a  short  flight  of 
stone  steps  descending  into  the  tomb.  The  vault  was 
fifteen  or  twenty  feet  square,  ingeniously  ventilated 


A  STRUGGLE   FOR  LIFE  63 

from  the  ceiling,  but  unlighted.  It  contained  two  sar 
cophagi:  the  first  held  the  remains  of  Madame  Dorine, 
long  since  dead;  the  other  was  new,  and  bore  on  one 
side  the  letters  J.  D.,  in  monogram,  interwoven  with 
fleurs-de-lis. 

The  funeral  train  stopped  at  the  gate  of  the  small  gar 
den  that  enclosed  the  place  of  burial,  only  the  immediate 
relatives  following  the  bearers  into  the  tomb.  A  slender 
wax  candle,  such  as  is  used  in  Catholic  churches,  burned 
at  the  foot  of  the  uncovered  sarcophagus,  casting  a  dim 
glow  over  the  centre  of  the  apartment,  and  deepening 
the  shadows  which  seemed  to  huddle  together  in  the 
corners.  By  this  flickering  light  the  coffin  was  placed  in 
its  granite  shell,  the  heavy  slab  laid  over  it  reverently, 
and  the  oaken  door  revolved  on  its  rusty  hinges,  shut 
ting  out  the  uncertain  ray  of  sunshine  that  had  ventured 
to  peep  in  on  the  darkness. 

M.  Dorine,  muffled  in  his  cloak,  threw  himself  on  the 
back  seat  of  the  carriage,  too  abstracted  in  his  grief  to 
observe  that  he  was  the  only  occupant  of  the  vehicle. 
There  was  a  sound  of  wheels  grating  on  the  graveled 
avenue,  and  then  all  was  silence  again  in  the  cemetery 
of  Montmartre.  At  the  main  entrance  the  carriages 
parted  company,  dashing  off  into  various  streets  at  a 
pace  that  seemed  to  express  a  sense  of  relief.  The  band 
plays  a  dead  march  going  to  the  grave,  but  "Fra  Dia- 
volo"  coming  from  it. 

It  is  not  with  the  retreating  carriages  that  our  inter 
est  lies ;  nor  yet  wholly  with  the  dead  in  her  mysterious 
dream;  but  with  Philip  Went  worth. 

The  rattle  of  wheels  had  died  out  of  the  air  when 
Philip  abruptly  roused  from  slumber.  He  raised  himself 


64  A  STRUGGLE   FOR  LIFE 

on  one  arm  and  stared  into  the  surrounding  blackness. 
Where  was  he?  In  a  second  the  truth  flashed  upon  him. 
He  had  been  left  in  the  tomb!  While  kneeling  on  the 
farther  side  of  the  stone  box,  perhaps  he  had  fainted, 
and  during  the  last  solemn  rites  his  absence  had  been 
unnoticed. 

His  first  emotion  was  one  of  natural  terror.  But  this 
passed  as  quickly  as  it  came.  Life  had  ceased  to  be  so 
very  precious  to  him;  and  if  it  were  his  fate  to  die  at 
Julie's  side,  was  not  that  the  fulfillment  of  the  desire 
which  he  had  expressed  to  himself  a  hundred  times  that 
morning?  What  did  it  matter,  a  few  years  sooner  or 
later?  He  must  lay  down  the  burden  at  last.  Why  not 
then?  A  pang  of  self-reproach  followed  the  thought. 
Could  he  so  lightly  throw  aside  the  love  that  had  bent 
over  his  cradle.  The  sacred  name  of  mother  rose  invol 
untarily  to  his  lips.  Was  it  not  cowardly  to  yield  up 
without  a  struggle  the  life  which  he  should  guard  for  her 
sake?  Was  it  not  his  duty  to  the  living  and  the  dead  to 
face  the  difficulties  of  his  position,  and  overcome  them 
if  it  were  within  human  power? 

With  an  organization  as  delicate  as  a  woman's,  he  had 
that  spirit  which,  however  sluggish  in  repose,  can  leap 
with  a  kind  of  exultation  to  measure  its  strength  with 
disaster.  The  vague  fear  of  the  supernatural,  which 
would  affect  most  men  in  a  similar  situation,  found  no 
room  in  his  heart.  He  was  simply  shut  in  a  chamber  from 
which  it  was  necessary  that  he  should  obtain  release 
within  a  given  period.  That  this  chamber  contained  the 
body  of  the  woman  he  loved,  so  far  from  adding  to  the 
terror  of  the  case,  was  a  circumstance  from  which  he 
drew  consolation.  She  was  a  beautiful  white  statue  now. 


A  STRUGGLE   FOR  LIFE  65 

Her  soul  was  far  hence;  and  if  that  pure  spirit  could 
return,  would  it  not  be  to  shield  him  with  her  love?  It 
was  impossible  that  the  place  should  not  engender  some 
thought  of  the  kind.  He  did  not  put  the  thought  en 
tirely  from  him  as  he  rose  to  his  feet  and  stretched  out 
his  hands  in  the  darkness ;  but  his  mind  was  too  healthy 
and  practical  to  indulge  long  in  such  speculations. 

Philip  chanced  to  have  in  his  pocket  a  box  of  the  wax 
tapers  which  smokers  use.  After  several  ineffectual 
attempts,  he  succeeded  in  igniting  one  against  the  dark 
wall,  and  by  its  momentary  glare  perceived  that  the 
candle  had  been  left  in  the  tomb.  This  would  serve  him 
in  examining  the  fastenings  of  the  vault.  If  he  could 
force  the  inner  door  by  any  means,  and  reach  the  grat 
ing,  of  which  he  had  an  indistinct  recollection,  he  might 
hope  to  make  himself  heard.  But  the  oaken  door  was 
immovable,  as  solid  as  the  wall  itself,  into  which  it 
fitted  air-tight.  Even  if  he  had  had  the  requisite  tools, 
there  were  no  fastenings  to  be  removed :  the  hinges  were 
set  on  the  outside. 

Having  ascertained  this,  he  replaced  the  candle  on 
the  floor,  and  leaned  against  the  wall  thoughtfully, 
watching  the  blue  fan  of  flame  that  wavered  to  and  fro, 
threatening  to  detach  itself  from  the  wick.  "At  all 
events,"  he  thought,  "the  place  is  ventilated." 

Suddenly  he  sprang  forward  and  extinguished  the 
light.  His  existence  depended  on  that  candle!  He  had 
read  somewhere,  in  some  account  of  shipwreck,  how  the 
survivors  had  lived  for  days  upon  a  few  candles  which 
one  of  the  passengers  had  insanely  thrown  into  the  long 
boat.  And  here  he  had  been  burning  away  his  very  life. 

By  the  transient  illumination  of  one  of  the  tapers,  he 


66  A  STRUGGLE  FOR  LIFE 

looked  at  his  watch.  It  had  stopped  at  eleven  —  but  at 
eleven  that  day,  or  the  preceding  night?  The  funeral,  he 
knew,  had  left  the  church  at  ten.  How  many  hours  had 
passed  since  then?  Of  what  duration  had  been  his 
swoon?  Alas !  it  was  no  longer  possible  for  him  to  meas 
ure  those  hours  which  crawl  like  snails  by  the  wretched, 
and  fly  like  swallows  over  the  happy. 

He  picked  up  the  candle,  and  seated  himself  on  the 
stone  steps.  He  was  a  sanguine  man,  this  Wentworth, 
but,  as  he  weighed  the  chances  of  escape,  the  prospect 
did  not  seem  encouraging.  Of  course  he  would  be 
missed.  His  disappearance  under  the  circumstances 
would  surely  alarm  his  friends;  they  would  instigate  a 
search  for  him;  but  who  would  think  of  searching  for  a 
live  man  in  the  cemetery  of  Montmartre?  The  Prefect 
of  Police  would  set  a  hundred  intelligences  at  work  to 
find  him;  the  Seme  might  be  dragged,  les  miserables 
turned  over  at  the  dead-house;  a  minute  description  of 
him  would  be  in  every  detective's  pocket;  and  he  —  in 
M.  Dorine's  family  tomb! 

Yet,  on  the  other  hand,  it  was  here  he  was  last  seen; 
from  this  point  a  keen  detective  would  naturally  work 
up  the  case.  Then  might  not  the  undertaker  return  for 
the  candlestick,  probably  not  left  by  design?  Or,  again, 
might  not  M.  Dorine  send  fresh  wreaths  of  flowers,  to 
take  the  place  of  those  which  now  diffused  a  pungent, 
aromatic  odor  throughout  the  chamber?  Ah!  what  un 
likely  chances !  But  if  one  of  these  things  did  not  happen 
speedily,  it  had  better  never  happen.  How  long  could 
he  keep  life  in  himself? 

With  unaccelerated  pulse,  he  quietly  cut  the  half- 
burned  candle  into  four  equal  parts.  "To-night,"  he 


A   STRUGGLE   FOR  LIFE  67 

meditated,  "I  will  eat  the  first  of  these  pieces;  to-mor 
row,  the  second;  to-morrow  evening,  the  third;  the  next 
day,  the  fourth;  and  then  —  then  I'll  wait!" 

He  had  taken  no  breakfast  that  morning,  unless  a  cup 
of  coffee  can  be  called  a  breakfast.  He  had  never  been 
very  hungry  before.  He  was  ravenously  hungry  now. 
But  he  postponed  the  meal  as  long  as  practicable.  It 
must  have  been  near  midnight,  according  to  his  calcula 
tion,  when  he  determined  to  try  the  first  of  his  four 
singular  repasts.  The  bit  of  white  wax  was  tasteless; 
but  it  served  its  purpose. 

His  appetite  for  the  time  appeased,  he  found  a  new 
discomfort.  The  humidity  of  the  walls,  and  the  wind 
that  crept  through  the  unseen  ventilator,  chilled  him  to 
the  bone.  To  keep  walking  was  his  only  resource.  A 
sort  of  drowsiness,  too,  occasionally  came  over  him.  It 
took  all  his  will  to  fight  it  off.  To  sleep,  he  felt,  was  to 
die;  and  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  live. 

Very  strange  fancies  flitted  through  his  head  as  he 
groped  up  and  down  the  stone  floor  of  the  dungeon, 
feeling  his  way  along  the  wall  to  avoid  the  sepulchres. 
Voices  that  had  long  been  silent  spoke  words  that  had 
long  been  forgotten;  faces  he  had  known  in  childhood 
grew  palpable  against  the  dark.  His  whole  life  was  un 
rolled  before  him  like  a  panorama;  the  changes  of  a  year, 
with  its  burden  of  love  and  death,  its  sweets  and  its  bit 
ternesses,  were  epitomized  in  a  single  second.  The  desire 
to  sleep  had  left  him.  But  the  keen  hunger  came  again. 

"It  must  be  near  morning  now,"  he  mused;  "perhaps 
the  sun  is  just  gilding  the  pinnacles  and  domes  of  the 
city;  or,  may  be,  a  dull,  drizzling  rain  is  beating  on 
Paris,  sobbing  on  these  mounds  above  me.  Paris!  it 


68  A  STRUGGLE   FOR  LIFE 

seems  like  a  dream.  Did  I  ever  walk  in  its  gay  streets 
in  the  golden  air?  Oh,  the  delight  and  pain  and  passion 
of  that  sweet  human  life!" 

Philip  became  conscious  that  the  gloom,  the  silence, 
and  the  cold  were  gradually  conquering  him.  The  fever 
ish  activity  of  his  brain  brought  on  a  reaction.  He  grew 
lethargic,  he  sunk  down  on  the  steps,  and  thought  of 
nothing.  His  hand  fell  by  chance  on  one  of  the  pieces  of 
candle;  he  grasped  it  and  devoured  it  mechanically. 
This  revived  him.  "How  strange,"  he  thought,  "that  I 
am  not  thirsty.  Is  it  possible  that  the  dampness  of  the 
walls,  which  I  must  inhale  with  every  breath,  has  sup 
plied  the  need  of  water?  Not  a  drop  has  passed  my  lips 
for  two  days,  and  still  I  experience  no  thirst.  That 
drowsiness,  thank  Heaven,  has  gone.  I  think  I  was 
never  wide-awake  until  now.  It  would  be  an  anodyne 
like  poison  that  could  weigh  down  my  eyelids.  No 
doubt  the  dread  of  sleep  has  something  to  do  with  it." 

The  minutes  were  like  hours.  Now  he  walked  as 
briskly  as  he  dared  up  and  down  the  tomb;  now  he 
rested  against  the  door.  More  than  once  he  was  tempted 
to  throw  himself  upon  the  stone  coffin  that  held  Julie, 
and  make  no  further  struggle  for  his  life. 

Only  one  piece  of  candle  remained.  He  had  eaten  the 
third  portion,  not  to  satisfy  hunger,  but  from  a  precau 
tionary  motive.  He  had  taken  it  as  a  man  takes  some 
disagreeable  drug  upon  the  result  of  which  hangs  safety. 
The  time  was  rapidly  approaching  when  even  this  poor 
substitute  for  nourishment  would  be  exhausted.  He 
delayed  that  moment.  He  gave  himself  a  long  fast  this 
time.  The  half-inch  of  candle  which  he  held  in  his  hand 
was  a  sacred  thing.  It  was  his  last  defense  against  death. 


A  STRUGGLE  FOR  LIFE  69 

At  length,  with  such  a  sinking  at  heart  as  he  had  not 
known  before,  he  raised  it  to  his  lips.  Then  he  paused, 
then  he  hurled  the  fragment  across  the  tomb,  then  the 
oaken  door  was  flung  open,  and  Philip,  with  dazzled 
eyes,  saw  M.  Dorine's  form  sharply  defined  against  the 
blue  sky. 

\Yhen  they  led  him  out,  half -blinded,  into  the  broad 
daylight,  M.  Dorine  noticed  that  Philip's  hair,  which  a 
short  time  since  was  as  black  as  a  crow's  wing,  had  'actu 
ally  turned  gray  in  places.  The  man's  eyes,  too,  had 
faded;  the  darkness  had  spoiled  their  lustre. 

"And  how  long  was  he  really  confined  in  the  tomb?" 
I  asked,  as  Mr.  H —  -  concluded  the  story. 

"Just  one  hour  and  twenty  minutes!"  replied  Mr. 
H ,  smiling  blandly. 

As  he  spoke,  the  little  sloops,  with  their  sails  all  blown 
out  like  white  roses,  came  floating  bravely  into  port, 
and  Philip  Wentworth  lounged  by  us,  wearily,  in  the 
pleasant  April  sunshine. 

Mr.  H —  — 's  narrative  made  a  deep  impression  on  me. 
Here  was  a  man  who  had  undergone  a  strange  ordeal. 
Here  was  a  man  whose  sufferings  were  unique.  His  was 
no  threadbare  experience.  Eighty  minutes  had  seemed 
like  two  days  to  him!  If  he  had  really  been  immured 
two  days  in  the  tomb,  the  story,  from  my  point  of  view, 
would  have  lost  its  tragic  element. 

After  this,  it  was  but  natural  that  I  should  regard 
Mr.  Wentworth  with  deepened  interest.  As  I  met  him 
from  day  to  day,  passing  through  the  Common  with 
that  same  abstracted  air,  there  was  something  in  his 
loneliness  which  touched  me.  I  wondered  that  I  had 


70  A  STRUGGLE  FOR  LIFE 

not  before  read  in  his  pale  meditative  face  some  such 

sad  history  as  Mr.  H had  confided  to  me.  I  formed 

the  resolution  of  speaking  to  him,  though  with  what 
purpose  was  not  very  clear  to  my  mind. 

One  May  morning  we  met  at  the  intersection  of 
two  paths.  He  courteously  halted  to  allow  me  the 
precedence. 

"Mr.  Wentworth,"  I  began,  "I  - 

He  interrupted  me.  "My  name,  sir,"  he  said,  in  an 
off-hand  manner,  "is  Jones." 

"  Jo- Jo- Jones !"  I  gasped. 

"Not  Jo  Jones,"  he  returned  coldly,  "Frederick." 

Mr.  Jones,  or  whatever  his  name  is,  will  never  know, 
unless  he  reads  these  pages,  why  a  man  accosted  him  one 
morning,  as  "Mr.  Wentworth,"  and  then  abruptly 
rushed  down  the  nearest  path,  and  disappeared  in  the 
crowd. 

The  fact  is,  I  had  been  duped  by  Mr.  H .  Mr. 

H occasionally  contributes  a  story  to  the  maga 
zines.  He  had  actually  tried  the  effect  of  one  of  his 
romances  on  me! 

My  hero,  as  I  subsequently  learned,  is  no  hero  at  all, 
but  a  commonplace  young  man  who  has  some  connec 
tion  with  the  building  of  that  pretty  granite  bridge 
which  will  shortly  span  the  crooked  little  lake  in  the 
Public  Garden. 

"When  I  think  of  the  cool  ingenuity  and  readiness  with 
which  Mr.  H —  -  built  up  his  airy  fabric  on  my  credul 
ity,  I  am  half  inclined  to  laugh ;  though  I  feel  not  slightly 
irritated  at  having  been  the  unresisting  victim  of  his 
Black  Art. 


THE  mist  lay  still  on  Heartbreak  Hill, 

The  sea  was  cold  below, 
The  waves  rolled  up  and,  one  by  one, 

Broke  heavily  and  slow; 

And  through  the  clouds  the  gray  gulls  fled. 

The  gannets  whistled  past, 
Across  the  dunes  the  wailing  loons 

Hid  from  the  rising  blast. 

The  moaning  wind,  that  all  day  long 

Had  haunted  marsh  and  lea, 
Went  mad  by  night,  and,  beating  round, 

Fled  shrieking  out  to  sea. 

The  crested  waves  turned  gray  to  white, 
That  tossed  the  drifting  spar, 

But  far  more  bright  the  yellow  light 
That  gleamed  on  Ipswich  Bar. 

Old  Harry  Main,  wild  Harry  Main, 

Upon  the  shifting  sand 
Had  built  a  flaming  beacon-light 

To  lure  the  ships  to  land. 


72  IPSWICH  BAR 

'  The  storm  breaks  out  and  far  to-night,  — 

They  seek  a  port  to  bide; 
God  rest  ye,  sirs,  on  Ipswich  Bar 

Your  ships  shall  surely  ride. 

"They  see  my  fires,  my  dancing  fires, 

They  lay  their  courses  down, 
And  ill  betide  the  mariners 
That  make  for  Ipswich  town! 

"  For  mine  the  wreck,  and  mine  the  gold,  — 

With  none  to  lay  the  blame,  — 
So  hold  ye  down  to-night,  good  sirs, 
And  I  will  feed  the  flame!" 

Oh,  dark  the  night  and  wild  the  gale! 

The  skipper  hither  turned 
To  where,  afar,  on  Ipswich  Bar, 

The  treacherous  beacon  burned; 

With  singing  shrouds  and  snapping  sheets 

The  vessel  swiftly  bore 
And  headed  for  the  guiding  lights 

Which  shone  along  the  shore. 

The  shoaling  waters  told  no  tale, 

The  tempest  made  no  sign, 
Till  full  before  her  plunging  bows 

Flashed  out  a  whitened  line; 

She  struck,  —  she  heeled,  —  the  parting  stays 

Went  by  with  mast  and  spar, 
And  then  the  wave  and  rain  beat  out 

The  light  on  Ipswich  Bar. 


IPSWICH  BAR  73 

Gray  dawn  beneath  the  dying  storm; 

A  figure  gaunt  and  thin 
Went  splashing  through  the  tangled  sedge 

To  drag  the  treasure  in; 

For  when  the  darkness  broke  away, 

The  lances  of  the  moon 
Had  shown  him  where  lay,  bow  in  air, 

A  wrecking  picaroon. 

What  matter  if  the  open  day 

Bore  witness  to  his  shame? 
'T  was  his  the  wreck  and  his  the  gold, 

And  none  had  seen  to  blame. 

He  did  not  know  the  eyes  of  men 

Were  watching  from  afar, 
As  Harry  Main  went  back  and  forth 

The  length  of  Ipswich  Bar. 

They  told  the  Ipswich  fisher-tolk, 

Who,  all  aghast  and  grim, 
Came  running  down  through  Pudding  Lane 

in  maddened  search  for  him; 

No  word,  - —  no  blow,  —  no  bitter  jest,  — 

They  did  not  strike  or  mar, 
But  short  the  shrift  of  Harry  Main 

That  day  on  Ipswich  Bar. 

They  marched  him  out  at  ebb  of  tide 

Where  lay  the  shattered  wreck, 
And  bound  him  to  the  dripping  rocks 

With  chains  about  his  neck; 


74  IPSWICH  BAR 

With  chains  about  his  guilty  neck 
They  left  him  to  the  wave  — 

The  lapping  tide  rose  eagerly 
To  hide  the  wrecker's  grave. 


And  now,  when  sudden  storms  strike  down 
With  hoarse  and  threatening  tones, 

Old  Harry  Main  must  rise  again 
And  gird  his  sea-wracked  bones 

To  coil  a  cable  made  of  sand 

Which  ever  breaks  in  twain, 
While  echoing  through  the  salted  marsh 

Is  heard  his  clanking  chain. 

When  rock  and  shoal  are  white  with  foam, 

The  watchers  on  the  sands 
Can  see  his  ghostly  form  rise  up 

And  wring  his  fettered  hands. 

And  out  at  sea  his  cries  are  heard 

Above  the  storm,  and  far, 
Where,  cold  and  still,  old  Heartbreak  Hill 

Looks  down  on  Ipswich  Bar. 


THE  WILD  MOTHER 

BY  DALLAS  LORE  SHARP 

ONE  of  the  most  interesting  instances  of  variation  of 
the  mother-instinct  in  birds  which  has  ever  come  under 
my  observation  occurred  in  the  summer  of  1912,  in  the 
rookeries  of  the  Three-Arch  Rocks  Reservation  off  the 
coast  of  Oregon. 

We  had  gone  out  to  the  Reservation  in  order  to  study 
and  photograph  its  wild  life,  and  were  making  our  slow 
way  toward  the  top  of  the  outer  rock.  Up  the  sheer 
south  face  of  the  cliff  we  had  climbed,  through  rookery 
after  rookery  of  nesting  birds,  until  we  reached  the  edge 
of  the  blade-like  back,  or  top,  that  ran  up  to  the  peak. 
Scrambling  over  this  edge,  we  found  ourselves  in  the 
midst  of  a  great  colony  of  nesting  murres  —  hundreds 
of  them  —  covering  the  steep  rocky  part  of  the  top. 

As  our  heads  appeared  above  the  rim,  many  of  the 
colony  took  wing  and  whirred  over  us  out  to  sea,  but 
most  of  them  sat  close,  each  bird  upon  her  egg  or  over 
her  chick,  loath  to  leave,  and  so  expose  to  us  her  hidden 
treasure. 

The  top  of  the  rock  was  somewhat  cone-shaped,  and 
in  order  to  reach  the  peak,  and  the  colonies  on  the  west 
side,  we  had  to  make  our  way  through  this  rookery  of 
the  murres.  The  first  step  among  them,  and  the  whole 
colony  was  gone,  with  a  rush  of  wings  and  feet  that  sent 
several  of  the  top-shaped  eggs  rolling,  and  several  of 


76  THE   WILD   MOTHER 

the  young  birds  toppling,  over  the  cliff  to  the  pounding 
waves  and  ledges  far  below. 

We  stopped  instantly.  We  had  not  come  to  frighten 
and  kill.  Our  climb  up  had  been  very  disturbing  to  the 
birds,  and  had  been  attended  with  some  loss  of  both 
eggs  and  young.  This  we  could  not  help;  and  we  had 
been  too  much  concerned  for  our  own  lives  really  to 
notice  what  was  happening.  But  here  on  the  top,  with 
the  climb  beneath  us,  the  sight  of  a  young  murre  going 
over  the  rim,  clawing  and  clinging  with  beak  and  nails 
and  unfledged  wings,  down  from  jutting  point  to  shelf, 
to  ledge,  down,  down  —  the  sight  of  it  made  one  dizzy 
and  sick. 

We  stopped,  but  the  colony  had  bolted,  leaving 
scores  of  eggs  and  scores  of  downy  young  squealing  and 
running  together  for  shelter,  like  so  many  beetles  under 
a  lifted  board. 

But  the  birds  had  not  every  one  bolted,  for  here  sat 
two  of  the  colony  among  the  broken  rocks.  These  two 
had  not  been  frightened  off.  That  both  of  them  were 
greatly  alarmed,  anyone  could  see  from  their  open 
beaks,  their  rolling  eyes,  their  tense  bodies  on  tiptoe 
for  flight.  Yet  here  they  sat,  their  wings  out  like  props, 
or  more  like  gripping  hands,  as  if  they  were  trying  to 
hold  themselves  down  to  the  rocks -against  their  wild 
desire  to  fly. 

And  so  they  were  in  truth,  for  under  their  extended 
wings  I  saw  little  black  feet  moving.  Those  two  mother 
murres  were  not  going  to  forsake  their  babies  —  no, 
not  even  for  fear  of  these  approaching  monsters,  which 
had  never  been  seen  clambering  over  their  rocks  before ! 

One  of  the  monsters  stood  stock-still  a  moment  for 


THE   WILD   MOTHER  77 

the  other  one,  the  photographer,  to  come  up.  Then 
both  of  them  took  a  step  nearer.  It  was  very  interesting. 
I  had  often  come  slowly  up  to  quails  on  their  nests, 
and  to  other  birds.  Once  I  crept  upon  a  killdeer  in  a 
bare  field  until  my  fingers  were  almost  touching  her. 
She  did  not  move  because  she  thought  I  did  not  see  her, 
it  being  her  trick  thus  to  hide  within  her  own  feathers, 
colored  as  they  are  to  blend  with  the  pebbly  fields  where 
she  lays  her  eggs.  So  the  brown  quail  also  blends  with 
its  brown  grass  nest.  But  those  murres,  though  colored 
in  harmony  with  the  rocks,  were  still,  not  because  they 
hoped  I  did  not  see  them.  I  did  see  them.  They  knew 
it.  Every  bird  in  the  great  colony  had  known  it,  and 
had  gone  —  with  the  exception  of  these  two. 

What  was  different  about  these  two?  They  had  their 
young  ones  to  protect.  But  so  had  every  bird  in  the 
great  colony  its  young  one,  or  its  egg,  to  protect;  yet 
all  the  others  had  gone.  Did  these  two  have  more  love 
than  the  others,  and  with  it,  or  because  of  it,  more 
courage,  more  intelligence? 

We  took  another  step  toward  them,  and  one  of  the 
two  birds  sprang  into  the  air,  knocking  her  baby  over 
and  over  with  the  stroke  of  her  wing,  coming  within  an 
inch  of  hurling  it  across  the  rim  to  be  battered  on  the 
ledges  below.  The  other  bird  raised  her  wings  to  follow, 
then  clapped  them  back  over  her  baby.  Fear  is  the 
most  contagious  thing  in  the  world,  and  that  flap  of  fear 
by  the  other  bird  thrilled  her,  too;  but  as  she  had  with 
stood  the  stampede  of  the  colony,  so  she  caught  her 
self  again  and  held  on. 

She  was  now  alone  on  the  bare  top  of  the  rock,  with 
ten  thousand  circling  birds  screaming  to  her  in  the  air 


78  THE   WILD   MOTHER 

above,  and  with  two  men  creeping  up  to  her  with  a 
big  black  camera  which  clicked  ominously.  She  let  the 
multitude  scream,  and  with  threatening  beak  watched 
the  two  men  come  on.  A  motherless  baby,  spying  her, 
ran  down  the  rock  squealing  for  his  life.  She  spread 
her  wing,  put  her  bill  behind  him,  and  shoved  him 
quickly  in  out  of  sight  with  her  own  baby.  The  man 
with  the  camera  saw  the  act,  for  I  heard  his  machine 
click,  and  I  heard  him  say  something  under  his  breath 
that  you  would  hardly  expect  a  mere  man  and  a  game- 
warden  to  say.  But  most  men  have  a  good  deal  of  the 
mother  in  them;  and  the  old  bird  had  acted  with  such 
decision,  such  courage,  such  swift,  compelling  instinct, 
that  any  man,  short  of  the  wildest  savage,  would  have 
felt  his  heart  quicken  at  the  sight. 

Just  how  compelling  might  that  mother-instinct  be?  I 
wondered.  Just  how  much  would  the  mother-love  stand? 

I  had  dropped  to  my  knees,  and  on  all  fours  had  crept 
up  within  about  three  feet  of  the  bird.  She  still  had  a 
chance  for  flight.  Would  she  allow  us  to  crawl  any 
nearer?  Slowly,  very  slowly,  I  stretched  forward  on 
my  hands,  like  a  measuring  worm,  until  my  body  lay  flat 
on  the  rocks,  and  my  fingers  were  within  three  inches  of 
her.  But  her  wings  were  twitching;  a  wild  light  danced 
in  her  eyes;  and  her  head  turned  itself  toward  the  sea. 

For  a  whole  minute  I  did  not  stir.  Then  the  wings 
again  began  to  tighten;  the  wild  light  in  the  eyes  died 
down;  the  long  sharp  beak  turned  once  more  to  ward  me. 
Then  slowly,  very  slowly,  I  raised  my  hand  and  gently 
touched  her  feathers  with  the  tip  of  one  finger  —  with 
two  fingers  —  with  my  whole  hand,  while  the  loud 
camera  clicked-clacked  hardly  four  feet  away! 


Photographs  by  William  L.  Finley 

DALLAS  LORE  SHARP  AND  THE  CALIFORNIA  MURRE 

WITH  HER  ONE  BABY 
Unhatched  eggs  of  the  colony  lying  on  the  ground 


80  THE   WILD   MOTHER 

It  was  a  thrilling  moment.  I  was  not  killing  anything. 
I  had  no  high-powered  rifle  in  my  hands,  coming  up 
against  the  wind  toward  an  unsuspecting  creature 
hundreds  of  yards  away.  This  was  no  wounded  leopard 
charging  me;  no  mother  bear  defending  with  her  giant 
might  a  captured  cub.  It  was  only  a  mother  bird,  the 
size  of  a  wild  duck,  with  swift  wings  at  her  command, 
hiding  under  those  wings  her  own  and  another's  young, 
and  her  own  boundless  fear ! 

For  the  second  time  in  my  life  I  had  taken  captive 
with  my  bare  hands  a  free  wild  bird.  No,  I  had  not 
taken  her  captive.  She  had  made  herself  a  captive;  she 
had  taken  herself  in  the  strong  net  of  her  mother-love. 

And  now  her  terror  seemed  quite  gone.  At  the  first 
touch  of  my  hand  she  felt,  I  think,  the  love  restraining 
it,  and  without  fear  or  fret  allowed  me  to  push  my  hand 
under  her  and  pull  out  the  two  downy  babies.  But  she 
reached  after  them  with  her  bill  to  tuck  them  back  out 
of  sight,  and  when  I  did  not  let  them  go,  she  sidled 
toward  me,  quacking  softly  —  a  language  that  I  per 
fectly  understood,  and  was  quick  to  answer. 

I  gave  them  back,  fuzzy,  and  black  and  white.  She 
got  them  under  her,  stood  up  over  them,  pushed  her 
wings  down  hard  around  them,  her  stout  tail  down  hard 
behind  them,  and  together  with  them  pushed  in  an 
abandoned  egg  which  was  close  at  hand.  Her  own  baby, 
someone  else's  baby,  and  someone  else's  forsaken  egg! 
She  could  cover  no  more;  she  had  not  feathers  enough. 
But  she  had  heart  enough ;  and  into  her  mother's  heart 
she  had  already  tucked  every  motherless  egg  and  nestling 
of  the  thousands  of  frightened  birds  that  were  scream 
ing  and  wheeling  in  the  air  high  over  her  head. 


AN   ORDER  FOR  A  PICTURE 

BY  ALICE  GARY 

O  GOOD  painter,  tell  me  true, 

Has  your  hand  the  cunning  to  draw 
Shapes  of  things  that  you  never  saw? 

Ay?  Well,  here  is  an  order  for  you. 

Woods  and  cornfields,  a  little  brown,  — 
The  picture  must  not  be  over-bright,  — 
Yet  all  in  the  golden  and  gracious  light 

Of  a  cloud,  when  the  summer  sun  is  down. 

Alway  and  alway,  night  and  morn, 
Woods  upon  woods,  with  fields  of  corn 

Lying  between  them,  not  quite  sere, 
And  not  in  the  full,  thick,  leafy  bloom, 
When  the  wind  can  hardly  find  breathing-room 

Under  their  tassels;  cattle  near, 
Biting  shorter  the  short  green  grass, 
And  a  hedge  of  sumach  and  sassafras, 
With  bluebirds  twittering  all  around,  — 
(Ah,  good  painter,  you  can't  paint  sound!)  — 

These,  and  the  house  where  I  was  born, 
Low  and  little,  and  black  and  old, 
With  children,  many  as  it  can  hold, 
All  at  the  windows,  open  wide, 
Heads  and  shoulders  clear  outside, 
And  fair  young  faces  all  ablush. 

Perhaps  you  may  have  seen,  some  day, 

Roses  crowding  the  self-same  way, 
Out  of  a  wilding,  way-side  bush. 


82  AN   ORDER  FOR  A  PICTURE 

Listen  closer.  When  you  have  done 

With  woods  and  cornfields  and  grazing  herds, 
A  lady,  the  loveliest  ever  the  sun 
Looked  down  upon,  you  must  paint  for  me. 
Oh,  if  I  only  could  make  you  see 

The  clear  blue  eyes,  the  tender  smile, 
The  sovereign  sweetness,  the  gentle  grace, 
The  woman's  soul,  and  the  angel's  face 

That  are  beaming  on  me  all  the  while! 

I  need  not  speak  these  foolish  words: 
Yet  one  word  tells  you  all  I  would  say  — 
She  is  my  mother:  you  will  agree 

That  all  the  rest  may  b^  thrown  away. 

Two  little  urchins  at  her  knee 
You  must  paint,  sir  —  one  like  me, 

The  other  with  a  clearer  brow, 
And  the  light  of  his  adventurous  eyes 
Flashing  with  boldest  enterprise: 
At  ten  years  old  he  went  to  sea,  - — 

God  knoweth  if  he  be  living  now,  — 
He  sailed  in  the  good  ship  Commodore  — 

Nobody  ever  crossed  her  track 

To  bring  us  news,  and  she  never  came  back. 
Ah,  't  is  twenty  long  years  and  more 

Since  that  old  ship  went  out  of  the  bay 
With  my  great-hearted  brother  on  her  deck; 
I  watched  him  till  he  shrank  to  a  speck, 

And  his  face  was  toward  me  all  the  way. 
Bright  his  hair  was,  a  golden  brown, 

The  time  we  stood  at  our  mother's  knee; 
That  beauteous  head,  if  it  did  go  down, 

Carried  sunshine  into  the  sea! 


AN   ORDER   FOR  A   PICTURE  83 

Out  in  the  fields  one  summer  night, 

We  were  together,  half  afraid 

Of  the  corn-leaves'  rustling,  and  of  the  shade 

Of  the  high  hills,  stretching  so  still  and  far,  — 
Loitering  till  after  the  low  little  light 

Of  the  candle  shone  through  the  open  door, 
And  over  the  hay-stack's  pointed  top, 
All  of  a  tremble,  and  ready  to  drop, 

The  first  half -hour,  the  great  yellow  star, 

That  we,  with  staring,  ignorant  eyes, 
Had  often  and  often  watched  to  see 

Propped  and  held  in  its  place  in  the  skies 
By  the  fork  of  a  tall  red  mulberry-tree, 

Which  close  in  the  edge  of  our  flax-field  grew,  — 
Dead  at  the  top,  —  just  one  branch  full 
Of  leaves,  notched  round,  and  lined  with  wool, 

From  which  it  tenderly  shook  the  dew 
Over  our  heads,  when  we  came  to  play 
In  its  hand-breadth  of  shadow,  day  after  day. 

Afraid  to  go  home,  sir;  for  one  of  us  bore 
A  nest  full  of  speckled  and  thin-shelled  eggs; 
The  other,  a  bird,  held  fast  by  the  legs, 
Not  so  big  as  a  straw  of  wheat; 
The  berries  we  gave  her  she  would  n't  eat, 
But  cried  and  cried,  till  we  held  her  bill, 
So  slim  and  shining,  to  keep  her  still. 

At  last  we  stood  at  our  mother's  knee. 

Do  you  think,  Sir,  if  you  try, 

You  can  paint  the  look  of  a  lie? 

If  you  can,  pray  have  the  grace 

To  put  it  solely  in  the  face 
Of  the  urchin  that  is  likest  me: 

I  think  't  was  solely  mine,  indeed : 


84  AN  ORDER  FOR  A  PICTURE 

But  that's  no  matter  —  paint  it  so; 

The  eyes  of  our  mother  (take  good  heed), 
Looking  not  on  the  nest-full  of  eggs, 
Nor  the  fluttering  bird,  held  so  fast  by  the  legs, 
But  straight  through  our  faces  down  to  our  lies, 
And,  oh,  with  such  injured,  reproachful  surprise! 

I  felt  my  heart  bleed  where  that  glance  went,  as 
though 

A  sharp  blade  struck  through  it. 

You,  sir,  know, 

That  you  on  the  canvas  are  to  repeat 
Things  that  are  fairest,  things  most  sweet,  — 
Woods  and  cornfields  and  mulberry-tree,  — 
The  mother,  —  the  lads,  with  their  bird,  at  her  knee. 

But,  oh,  that  look  of  reproachful  woe! 
High  as  the  heavens  your  name  I  '11  shout, 
If  you  paint  me  the  picture,  and  leave  that  out. 


ACCORDING  TO   CODE 

BY  KATHERINE  MAYO 

FIRST  SERGEANT  STOUT  of  A  Troop  becomes  his 
name  like  any  hero  of  English  ballad.  First  Sergeant 
Stout  is  towering  tall,  and  broad  and  sinewy  in  propor 
tion.  There  is  not  a  meagre  thing  about  him,  from  his 
heart  and  his  smile  to  the  grip  of  his  hand,  whether  in 
strangle-hold  or  in  greeting.  Just  as  he  stands,  he  might 
have  roamed  the  woods  with  Robin  Hood,  or  fought  on 
the  field  of  Crecy  in  the  morning  of  the  world. 

But  First  Sergeant  Stout  has  one  peculiarity  which 
in  the  morning  of  the  world  could  never  have  marked 
him.  Sometimes,  when  he  turns  his  head  to  right  or  to 
left,  his  head  sticks  fast  that  way  until  he  takes  it  be 
tween  his  two  hands  and  lifts  it  back  again;  and  the 
reason  is  that  he  carries  a  bullet  close  to  his  spinal  cord, 
lodged  between  the  first  and  second  vertebrae. 

Once  on  a  time,  Sergeant  Stout  had  charge  of  a  sub 
station  in  the  town  of  Unionville,  County  Fayette.  And 
among  those  days  came  a  night  when,  at  exactly  a 
quarter  past  ten  o'clock,  the  sub-station  telephone 
rang  determinedly. 

There  was  nothing  novel  in  this,  since  the  sub-station 
telephone  was  always  determinedly  ringing,  day  and 
night,  to  the  tune  of  somebody's  troubles.  But  this 
time  the  thing  was  vicariously  expressed ;  or,  you  might 
call  it,  feebly  conglomerate. 


86  ACCORDING  TO   CODE 

The  constable  of  the  village  of  Republic  held  the 
wire.  He  complained  that  one  Charles  Erhart,  drunken 
and  violent,  had  beaten  his  wife,  had  driven  her  and 
their  children  out  of  doors,  and  was  now  intrenched  in 
the  house,  with  the  black  flag  flying. 

"She's  given  me  a  warrant  to  arrest  the  man,  but  I 
can't  do  it,"  said  the  constable.  "He'll  shoot  me  if  I 
try.  So  I  thought  some  of  you  fellers  might  like  to 
come  over  and  tackle  him." 

The  sergeant  looked  at  his  watch.  "The  trolley 
leaves  in  fifteen  minutes,"  said  he.  "  I  '11  be  up  on  that." 

The  trolley  left  Unionville  at  half  after  ten,  reaching 
Republic,  the  end  of  the  line,  just  one  hour  later. 

"Last  run  for  the  night,"  the  motorman  remarked  as 
they  sighted  the  terminus. 

"I  know.  And  I've  only  about  half  an  hour's  business 
to  do  here.  Then  I  'd  like  to  get  back.  Do  you  think 
you  could  wait?" 

"Sure,"  said  motorman  and  conductor  together. 
"Glad  to  do  it  for  you,  sergeant." 

Hovering  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  at  the  "  's-far-'s- 
we-go"  point,  hung  the  constable  —  a  little  man,  nerv 
ous  and  deprecatory.  Religious  pedagogy  would  have 
been  more  in  his  line  than  the  enforcement  of  law. 
Now  he  was  depressed  by  a  threatened  lumbago,  and 
by  the  abnormal  hours  that  his  duty  was  laying  upon 
him.  Also  he  was  worried  by  the  present  disturbance  in 
his  bailiwick,  and  therefore  sincerely  relieved  to  see  an 
officer  of  the  State  Police. 

"He 's  a  bad  one,  that  Charlie  Erhart,  at  the  best  of 
times.  And  when  he  's  drunk  he 's  awful.  I  could  n't 
pretend  to  handle  him  — it  wouldn't  be  safe.  Like's 


ACCORDING   TO   CODE  87 

not  he'd  hurt  me.  But  you"  -  As  if  struck  by  a  new 
thought,  the  constable  suddenly  stopped  in  his  tracks 
to  turn  and  stare  at  the  sergeant.  "Why,  you  —  why, 
I  thought  you'd  bring  a  squad!" 

"To  arrest  one  man?"  the  sergeant  inquired  gravely. 
"Well,  you  see  we're  rather  busy  just  now,  so  we  have 
to  spread  ourselves  out." 

They  were  walking  rapidly  through  the  midnight 
streets,  turning  corners,  here  and  again,  into  darker  and 
narrower  quarters.  The  ring  of  their  steps  stood  out 
upon  the  silence  with  a  lone  and  chiseled  clarity,  as 
though  all  the  rest  of  the  world  had  fled  to  the  moon. 
Yet,  to  the  constable's  twittering  mind  that  very  silence 
teemed  with  a  horrible  imminence.  The  blackness  in 
each  succeeding  alley  seemed  coiled  to  leap  at  him.  He 
dared  neither  to  face  it  nor  to  leave  it  at  his  back. 

His  gait  began  to  slacken,  to  falter.  At  last  he 
stopped.  "  I  guess  I  '11  leave  you  here."  -  He  flung  out 
the  words  in  a  heap,  as  if  to  smother  his  scruples.  - 
"You  just  go  on  down  the  street,  then  take  the  second 
turn  to  the  left,  and  the  house  is  on  the  far  side  —  third 
from  the  corner.  You  can't  miss  it.  And  my  lumbago 's 
coming  on  so  fast  I  guess  I'll  have  to  get  home  to  bed. 
Glad  you  came,  anyway.  Good-night  to  you." 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  said  the  sergeant.  "If  you  are  not 
coming  along,  I  want  to  see  the  woman  before  I  go 
farther." 

The  constable  indicated  the  tenement  house  in 
which  the  fugitive  family  had  taken  refuge.  Then  he 
whisked  around,  like  a  rabbit  afraid  of  being  caught  by 
its  long  ears,  and  vanished  into  the  dark. 

Mrs.  Erhart,  nursing  a  swollen  eye  and  a  cut  cheek, 


88  ACCORDING  TO   CODE 

clutching  a  moaning  baby  in  her  arms  and  with  a  cluster 
of  half-clad,  half-starved,  wholly  frightened  and  miser 
able  children  shivering  about  her,  told  her  tale  without 
reserve.  The  single  little  lamp  in  the  room,  by  its 
wretched  light,  showed  her  battered  face  in  tragic 
planes.  Her  voice  was  hoarse,  hard,  monotonous.  She 
had  no  more  hope  —  no  more  illusion  —  no  more  shame. 

"He  has  tried  to  kill  us  all,  me  and  the  children  — 
often.  He  does  n't  get  helpless  drunk.  He  gets  mad 
drunk.  Some  day  he  will  kill  us,  I  guess.  There 's  nought 
to  prevent  him.  Do  I  want  him  arrested?  Yes,  sir,  I 
do  that!  He's  tried  to  take  our  lives  this  very  night. 
And  he 's  keeping  us  out  of  all  the  home  we  've  got  — -  all 
the  home  we 've  got.  But"  —  and  she  looked  up  with  a 
sudden  strange  flicker  of  feeling  akin  to  pride—  "I 
reckon  he  '11  kill  you  if  you  try  to  touch  him,  big  as  you 
are.  He  sure  will !  Erhart  's  a  terror,  he  is !  And  to-day 
he  's  cut  loose,  for  a  fact." 

Armed  now  with  an  indisputable  justification  for 
entering  the  house,  Sergeant  Stout  went  ahead  with  his 
errand.  The  place,  when  he  found  it,  proved  to  have  a 
narrow  passageway  running  from  the  street  to  its  back 
door. 

Sergeant  Stout,  taking  the  passageway,  walked 
quietly  round  to  the  back  door  and  knocked. 

"Who's  there?" 

"State  Police." 

"You  don't  get  in!" 

The  voice  was  loose,  flat,  blaring  —  a  foolish,  violent 
voice. 

The  sergeant  set  his  shoulder  against  the  door.  It 
groaned,  creaked,  splintered,  gave  way,  opening  directly 


ACCORDING  TO   CODE  89 

into  the  kitchen.  Confusion  filled  the  place.  Broken 
furniture,  smashed  dishes,  messes  of  scattered  food, 
made  in  the  smudgy  lamp's  dim  light  a  scene  to  be 
grasped  at  a  glance.  But  there  was  no  time  to  look 
about.  Directly  at  hand,  half-crouching,  lurching  side- 
wise  for  the  spring  of  attack,  lowered  a  big,  evil-vis- 
aged  hulk  of  a  man.  His  eyes  were  red,  inflamed  with 
rage  and  drink;  his  breath  came  in  gusts,  like  the  breath 
of  an  angry  bull. 

"You  would,  would  you!  You  —  bloody  —  Cossack! 
I  'II  learn  you  to  interfere  with  the  rights  of  an  honest 
laboring  man  in  his  home ! " 

He  held  his  right  hand  behind  him  as  he  spoke. 
Now  he  jerked  it  forward,  with  its  gun. 

With  a  jump  the  sergeant  grabbed  him,  wrenched 
the  revolver  out  of  his  grip,  and,  though  the  other 
struggled  with  all  his  brute  strength,  forced  him  stead 
ily  down  to  the  floor.  Then,  with  practised  touch,  he 
made  search  for  further  weapons,  and  was  already  lock 
ing  the  handcuffs  on  the  wrists  of  the  prostrate  prisoner 
when  a  voice  from  beyond  made  him  raise  his  head. 

Opposite  the  back  entrance,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
kitchen,  an  open  doorway  framed  the  blackness  of  the 
front  room.  That  doorway  had  been  empty.  But  now, 
around  its  casement,  and  to  the  left  as  the  sergeant 
faced  it,  projected  a  long,  dully  gleaming  bar,  — •  the 
barrel  of  a  rifle,  —  while  behind,  faint  against  the  night 
within,  showed  the  left  hand  and  the  left  eye  of  the 
gunman. 

"You!"  he  had  called,  having  already  brought  his 
rifle  to  bear.  And  the  sergeant,  stooping  above  his 
fallen  assailant,  looked  up  in  quick  attention.  The 


90  ACCORDING  TO  CODE 

gunman  had  wanted  a  better  mark  —  a  full  front  face 
to  fire  at.  He  had  it  now  —  so  he  blazed  away.  The 
bullet  struck  fan*  between  the  trooper's  eyes,  tearing 
through  to  the  spine. 

But  because  he  had  chanced  to  receive  it  in  that  very 
position,  stooping  and  looking  up  with  his  head  half- 
raised,  the  charge  had  spared  the  chamber  of  the  brain, 
passing  along  its  lower  wall.  The  shock,  nevertheless, 
was  terrific. 

Sergeant  Stout,  rightly  named,  never  wavered.  In 
stantaneously,  in  his  first  perception  of  the  threat  be 
yond,  he  had  drawn  his  service  Colt.  And  even  as  the 
other's  bullet  burst  through  his  head,  he  had  sprung 
erect  and  fired  at  the  gleam  of  that  one  visible  eye  be 
yond  the  door.  Now,  sliding  over  to  the  wall  on  the 
right,  and  so  gaining  a  further  view  into  the  room,  he 
covered  his  adversary  with  his  revolver. 

The  gunman  was  in  the  very  motion  of  firing  again,  — 
and  the  Trooper's  Colt  would  have  anticipated  the  shot, 
—  when  suddenly  the  rifle-barrel  wavered  and  dropped 
as  its  holder  sank  forward  across  the  threshold. 

Still  covering  him,  the  sergeant  walked  over  and 
looked  at  the  man.  He  had  fainted  —  or  was  feigning 
it.  The  sergeant,  kneeling  beside  him,  saw  that  he  was 
bleeding  from  the  head.  That  snap  revolver  shot  had 
gone  true,  striking  just  above  the  eye  and  glancing 
around  to  the  back  of  the  skull.  But  the  soldier's  trained 
touch  told  him  that  the  wound  was  slight.  Even  on  the 
instant  the  fallen  man  opened  his  eyes  —  began  to  stir. 
In  another  minute  he  would  be  all  alive  again. 

The  sergeant  stood  up.  In  the  cool,  impersonal  way 
made  second  nature  by  the  training  of  the  force,  he 


ACCORDING  TO   CODE  91 

rapidly  weighed  the  situation.  Here  was  he,  Sergeant 
Stout  of  the  Pennsylvania  State  Police,  at  midnight, 
alone,  in  the  back  room  of  an  obscure  dwelling  in  a 
mean  place.  He  had  in  his  possession  two  prisoners  — 
one  handcuffed  and  cowed,  the  other  for  the  moment 
safe  by  reason  of  a  rapidly  passing  daze. 

If  this  were  all,  the  situation  would  be  of  an  extreme 
simplicity.  His  second  prisoner  revived,  he  would 
march  them  both  to  the  waiting  trolley  and  take  them 
back  to  Unionville  jail.  But  this  was  not  quite  all.  He, 
Sergeant  Stout,  had  been  shot  through  the  head.  His 
head  seemed  to  be  growing  bigger,  bigger.  Blood  was 
pouring  down  his  throat  in  a  steady  stream.  It  would 
make  him  sick  if  he  stopped  to  think  of  it;  and  his  head 
was  growing  bigger  —  curiously  bigger.  Presumably, 
like  other  persons  shot  through  the  head,  he  would  pres 
ently  die.  If  he  died  before  he  handed  these  men  over 
into  safe  keeping,  that  would  be  a  pity,  because  they 
would  get  away.  Further,  if  he  could  not  maintain 
sufficient  grip  on  himself  to  handle  prisoner  number 
two,  prisoner  number  two,  beyond  any  doubt,  would 
shortly  shoot  again.  As  long,  however,  as  he  did  keep 
that  grip  on  himself,  just  so  long  prisoner  number  two 
was  a  "prisoner  under  control."  And  prisoners  under 
control,  by  the  code  of  the  force,  must  be  protected 
by  their  captors.  Obviously  then,  there  was  just  one 
course  for  Sergeant  Stout  to  pursue:  since  he  must, 
beyond  question,  complete  these  arrests,  and  since  he 
must  not  permit  his  second  captive  to  make  the  move 
that  would  justify  disabling  him,  he  must  hang  on  to 
his  own  life  and  wavering  senses  long  enough  to  march 
the  two  men  to  that  trolley  car.  It  had  to  be  done, 


92  ACCORDING  TO   CODE 

though  his  head  was  growing  bigger  —  bigger  (surely  it 
must  be  spreading  the  skull  apart !)  —  and  the  thick, 
choking  blood  was  pouring  down  his  throat. 

He  kicked  the  rifle  away  from  the  threshold,  out  of 
the  left-handed  gunman's  reach.  The  gunman  was 
moving  now  —  consciousness  fully  returned.  The 
sergeant,  motioning  with  the  point  of  his  Colt,  brought 
him  up  standing.  Then,  with  another  gesture  of  his 
revolver  too  simple  to  be  misunderstood,  he  indicated 
to  the  two  the  door  to  the  street. 

It  must  have  seemed  to  them  like  taking  orders  from 
a  spectre  —  from  one  of  those  awful  beings  through 
whose  charmed  substance  bullets  pass  without  effect. 
They  looked  at  him  aslant,  fearfully.  This  Presence  had 
been  shot  through  its  brain,  —  there  was  the  mark,  — 
yet  it  gave  no  sign  of  human  vulnerability.  It  was  not 
good  —  not  natural !  For  the  last  hour  they  had  been 
amusing  themselves,  this  well-met  pair,  in  firing  at  a 
mark  on  the  kitchen  wall.  Their  bullets  had  been  strik 
ing  through,  into  the  house  next  door,  arousing  a  spicy 
echo  of  women's  screams.  With  relish  they  had  awaited 
some  attempt  at  restraint.  But  they  had  not  expected 
just  this!  Scarcely  daring  to  meet  each  other's  eyes, 
they  filed  out  of  the  door,  into  the  yard,  into  the  street. 
Little  they  guessed  how  the  trooper's  head  was  sailing. 

"I've  got  to  make  it!"  said  the  sergeant  to  himself, 
clenching  his  teeth.  And  he  would  not  think  how  many 
blocks  it  was  to  "  's  far's  we  go." 

"One  block  at  a  time '11  do  it,"  he  told  himself.  One 
block  at  a  time,  he  was  steering  them  rapidly  along, 
when  upon  his  unsteady  hearing  broke  the  sound  of 
footsteps,  approaching  on  the  run. 


93 

"Another  thug  to  their  rescue,  maybe!"  thought  the 
sergeant  —  and  the  idea  pulled  him  together  with  a  jerk. 

As  the  footsteps  rang  close,  he  held  himself  braced  for 
an  onset.  They  neared  the  corner  ahead,  —  his  Colt 
waited  ready,  —  but  the  flying  figure,  rounding  under 
the  street  lamp,  showed,  heaven  be  praised!  the  uniform 
of  the  Pennsylvania  State  Police. 

Trooper  Lithgow,  returning  to  the  sub-station  from 
detached  duty,  and  passing  through  the  town  of  Repub 
lic,  had  learned  from  the  waiting  trolley  men  of  his  ser 
geant's  presence,  with  some  hint  of  the  errand  which 
had  brought  him  there.  Thinking  that  help  might  not 
be  amiss,  he  had  started  out  to  join  his  officer,  and  was 
hastening  along  the  way,  when  the  sound  of  the  two 
shots,  distinct  on  the  midnight  silence,  had  turned  his 
stride  to  a  run. 

Together  they  walked  to  the  trolley,  herding  the  pris 
oners  before  them.  Together  they  rode  to  Unionville, 
with  the  prisoners  between  them.  From  time  to  time  the 
two  trolley  men  looked  at  Sergeant  Stout,  with  the 
bleeding  hole  between  his  eyes,  then  looked  at  each 
other,  and  said  nothing.  Very  rarely  Trooper  Lithgow 
looked  at  Sergeant  Stout,  then  at  the  trolley  men,  but 
said  nothing.  A  proud  man  he  was  that  night.  But  he 
did  not  want  those  trolley  men  to  know  it.  He  wanted 
them  to  see  and  to  understand  for  all  time  that  this 
thing  was  a  matter  of  course  —  that  you  could  n't  down 
an  officer  of  the  Pennsylvania  State  Police  on  duty. 

They  got  their  two  prisoners  jailed.  Then  they  walked 
over  to  the  hospital  (the  last  lift  of  the  way  up  the  hos 
pital  hill,  Lithgow  lent  a  steadying  arm)  and  there,  in 
the  doctor's  presence,  Sergeant  Stout  gently  collapsed. 


94  ACCORDING  TO   CODE 

"  I  'm  glad  you  came,  Lithgow.  But  you  see  —  I  could 
have  fetched  it!"  he  said,  with  the  makings  of  a  grin, 
just  before  he  went  over. 

There  were  four  days  when  he  might  have  died. 
Then  his  o\vn  nature  laid  hold  on  him  and  lifted  him 
back  again  into  the  world  of  sunshine.  "It's  one  of 
those  super-cures  effected  by  pure  optimism.  The 
man  expected  to  get  well,"  the  surgeon  said. 

But  they  dared  not  cut  for  the  bullet:  it  lay  too  close 
to  the  spinal  cord.  And  so  First  Sergeant  Stout,  when 
his  head  gets  stuck  fast,  has  yet  to  take  it  in  his  two 
hands  and  shift  it  free  again.  Still,  with  a  head  as  steady 
as  that,  what  does  it  matter? 


A  LITTLE   MOTHER 

BY  FLORENCE  GILMORE 

I  HAD  been  on  the  train  for  hours  and  was  very  tired. 
All  morning  I  had  seen  only  a  level,  thinly  wooded 
country,  never  beautiful  or  picturesque.  The  magazine 
with  which  I  had  armed  myself,  fondly  imagining  that 
it  would  be  a  protection  against  the  tedium  of  a  six-hour 
trip,  had  proved  dull  to  a  degree  that  defies  expression. 
There  was  no  one  to  talk  to,  for  the  only  other  passen 
gers  were  a  fat  woman  who  slept  most  of  the  time 
and,  when  she  was  awake,  read  a  novel  and  languidly 
munched  peanuts,  and  four  traveling  salesmen  who 
harped  on  boots  and  shoes  and  notions  until  I  became  so 
weary  listening  to  them  that  I  firmly  resolved  that, 
come  what  might,  I  would  never  again  use  any  of  the 
things  they  sold. 

At  one  o'clock,  having  finished  my  luncheon,  I  sank 
back  in  my  seat  and  looked  out  of  the  window,  thinking 
irritably  how  I  must  be  bored  for  another  hour.  The 
train  was  then  standing  at  a  country  station  exactly  like 
thirty  or  forty  others  we  had  passed  during  the  morning. 
What  looked  to  be  the  same  stiff-legged  station-master 
was  hurrying  back  and  forth;  the  same  shabbily  dressed 
men  loafed  about;  the  same  small  boys  ran  hither  and 
thither  in  everyone's  way;  the  sameyoung  girls  giggled, 
and  nudged  one  another,  and  giggled  again. 

Turning  from  my  window  with  a  long-drawn  sigh,  I 


96  A  LITTLE   MOTHER 

saw  that  a  little  girl  had  got  on  the  train  and  was  taking 
the  seat  across  the  aisle  from  mine.  What  impressed  me 
most  in  that  first  glance  was  her  quaint  primness.  Her 
hair  hung  down  her  back  in  the  neatest  of  long  braids, 
and  was  fastened  with  the  neatest  of  small  black  bows. 
Her  stiffly  starched  gingham  dress  was  spotless  and  her 
gloves  looked  like  new.  She  had  a  sweet,  round,  rosy 
little  face,  but  it  was  graver  than  any  other  child's  I 
have  ever  seen.  Watching  her,  I  wondered  if  she  ever 
played,  or  broke  her  toys  and  tore  her  clothes  and  for 
got  to  do  the  things  she  had  been  told  but  a  moment 
before,  like  many  dear  naughty  little  girls  I  know. 

Interested  by  the  quaintness  of  the  child,  I  reopened 
my  magazine  and  watched  her  from  behind  it.  As  soon 
as  she  was  seated  she  carefully  arranged  her  belongings 
on  the  seat  facing  her  —  a  satchel,  a  box,  and  a  large 
apple.  She  took  off  her  hat,  and  spying  a  newspaper 
which  I  had  thrown  aside,  asked  me  for  it.  "Perhaps 
the  dust  would  spoil  the  flowers,"  she  said.  "I  don't 
like  to  run  the  risk." 

I  asked  her  a  few  questions  then.  She  was  not  shy, 
and  was  evidently  inclined  to  be  friendly,  for  as  soon  as 
she  had  disposed  her  belongings  to  her  satisfaction,  she 
crossed  the  aisle  and  sat  beside  me. 

"I  want  to  keep  my  hat  as  nice  as  new,  because 
mamma  trimmed  it  herself.  Papa  and  I  think  it  is  the 
beautifulest  hat  we  have  ever  seen.  We  are  very  proud 
of  it.  You  see,  mamma  is  sick  all  the  time.  She  can't 
even  sew  except  once  in  a  great  while.  She  has  awful 
pains,  and  she  is  weak,  and  can  hardly  ever  get  out  of 
bed,  so  papa  and  I  are  very  good  to  her  and  take  care  of 
her  all  we  can.  She  says  we  spoil  her,  but  she's  only 


A  LITTLE   MOTHER  97 

joking,  don't  you  think  so?  It's  only  children  that  get 
spoiled,  is  n't  it?" 

I  said  that  I  believed  so;  and  after  a  moment,  to 
break  the  silence  that  followed,  I  asked  her  if  she  had 
any  brothers  and  sisters.  I  felt  certain  that  she  had  not. 
She  would  have  been  less  staid  had  she  been  accustomed 
to  the  companionship  of  other  children. 

"I  had  three  brothers,"  she  answered,  "but  they  all 
died  before  I  was  born,  and  two  little  sisters  —  twins; 
and  they  died  when  they  were  just  one  hour  old."  She 
looked  puzzled  after  she  had  said  this  and  an  instant 
later  she  corrected  herself:  "The  twins  really  weren't 
old  at  all;  they  were  just  —  just  one  hour  young  "  And 
having  settled  this  point  to  her  satisfaction,  she  looked 
into  my  face  and  added  seriously,  "I  have  often  thought 
about  it.  I  believe  that  when  my  brothers  and  sisters 
came  they  did  not  like  it  here,  so  God  did  n't  make 
them  stay,  but  took  them  straight  to  heaven." 

"And  you  liked  it,  and  did  stay,"  I  said,  drawing  my 
conclusion  from  her  premises. 

"I?  Oh,  I  like  it  pretty  well.  Sometimes  things  are 
inconvenient,  and  they're  often  uncomfortable,  but  it 
is  n't  bad  if  you  have  people  to  be  good  to." 

She  lapsed  into  silence  after  this,  and  resting  her  chin 
on  her  hand  stared  thoughtfully  through  the  window. 
Eager  to  hear  more  of  her  strange  little  thoughts,  I 
racked  my  brain  for  something  to  say,  and  at  last,  noth 
ing  startling  or  original  suggesting  itself,  I  asked:  "  Have 
you  been  long  away  from  home?" 

"For  four  weeks.  Mamma  got  so  sick  she  had  to  be 
taken  to  a  hospital,  and  then  papa  sent  me  to  stay  at 
grandma's." 


98  A  LITTLE   MOTHER 

"And  of  course  she  has  been  spoiling  you  —  after  the 
manner  of  grandmothers!"  I  said,  smiling. 

The  child  looked  doubtful,  and  made  no  direct  an 
swer.  After  a  time  she  explained  in  her  quaint,  decided 
way:  — 

"Mothers  and  grandmothers  are  different.  Grand 
mothers  give  little  girls  cookies  and  they  don't  tell  them 
to  go  to  bed  at  half -past  seven;  but  they  have  n't  such 
good  ways  of  tucking  people  in  bed,  and  their  kisses 
are  n't  the  same. 

"I  didn't  know  until  yesterday  that  I  was  going 
home  to-day,"  she  went  on  after  a  scarcely  perceptible 
pause.  "I  had  a  hard  time  to  get  presents  for  mamma. 
I  had  made  two  daisy  chains;  they  were  ready;  and  all 
day  yesterday  I  was  trying  to  think  of  some  other 
things  that  would  be  nice  and  could  n't  make  her  tired. 
Papa  and  I  always  try  not  to  let  her  grow  tired,  but  she 
often  does,  anyhow." 

She  crossed  the  aisle,  and  getting  the  box  I  had  noticed 
when  she  entered  the  car,  opened  it  and  proudly  dis 
played  two  chains  of  withered  daisies,  a  bird's  egg 
wrapped  in  cotton,  several  picture  cards,  and  a  stiff, 
new  cotton  handkerchief  with  a  gorgeous  border. 

"All  these  are  for  her!"  she  said.  "The  daisies  have 
faded  but  she  won't  mind  that.  I  know,  because  once 
before  I  made  her  a  daisy  chain  and  it  withered  before  I 
got  home,  but  she  liked  it  as  it  was.  She  really  liked  it 
very  much.  She  told  me  so,  and  even  if  she  had  n't  I 
could  have  told  from  the  way  she  smiled.  A  big  boy 
gave  me  the  bird's  egg.  Then  I  had  a  nickel  grand 
ma  gave  me  last  week,  and  for  a  long  time  I  could  n't 
decide  whether  to  buy  this  handkerchief  or  a  pin  with  a 


A  LITTLE   MOTHER  99 

diamond  in  it;  but  papa  gave  her  a  pin  on  her  birthday 
and  she 's  never  had  any  kind  of  handkerchiefs  except 
plain  white  ones:  that's  what  decided  me.  This  one  is 
very  pretty,  don't  you  think  so?" 

I  blinked  at  the  flaming  colors  and  murmured  some 
thing  noncommittal. 

The  child  hardly  paused  for  breath  before  she  con 
tinued  her  quaint  chatter.  She  loved  to  talk,  and  as  I 
was  only  too  glad  to  have  someone — anyone — to  listen 
to,  all  went  well. 

"It  seems  a  long  time  since  I  left  papa  and  mamma. 
I  can  hardly  wait  to  see  them.  I  was  never  away  from 
home  before.  Do  you  think  she 's  well  enough  to  be  at 
the  station?  She's  been  at  a  hospital,  and  papa  says 
a  hospital 's  a  place  where  they  make  people  well." 

I  told  her  not  to  count  on  finding  her  mother  grown 
quite  strong  in  so  short  a  time. 

"Is  n't  it  wonderful  how  things  happen  just  when  you 
don't  expect  them  to?"  she  exclaimed,  not  heeding  my 
warning  in  the  least.  "  When  I  got  out  of  bed  yesterday 
morning  I  did  n't  know  I  was  going  to  see  her  and  papa 
so  soon!  I  was  just  throwing  them  a  kiss  from  my  win 
dow  when  grandma  called  me.  She  had  been  crying, 
and  she  told  me  that  papa  wanted  me  at  home.  I  sup 
pose  it  was  because  she  was  going  to  lose  me  that  she 
cried.  I  'd  been  very  good  to  her.  But  I  did  n't  feel  a  bit 
like  crying.  I  was  glad  all  inside  of  me.  And  by  and  by 
Mrs.  Dodge,  who  knew  mamma  when  she  was  no  bigger 
than  I  am,  she  came  to  see  grandma  and  they  talked  and 
talked,  and  she  cried  too — I  saw  her.  I  think  she  must 
have  caught  the  tears  from  grandma,  like  I  did  the 
measles  from  our  butcher's  little  boy." 


100  A  LITTLE  MOTHER 

As  she  chattered,  my  heart  grew  heavy.  I  under 
stood  that  her  mother  was  dead;  buried,  too,  no  doubt. 
Poor  motherless  child !  Poor,  poor  child !  And  she  had 
no  suspicion  of  the  truth.  She  was  all  eagerness,  all 
hope. 

When  we  reached  R ,  we  got  off  the  train  together, 

but  the  moment  she  caught  sight  of  her  father  she  forgot 
my  existence.  I  looked  at  him  with  keen,  sympathetic 
interest.  He  appeared  to  be  almost  fifty  years  of  age. 
His  face  was  kindly  and  rather  handsome.  He  lifted  his 
little  girl  into  his  arms  and  almost  smothered  her  with 
kisses;  then  they  walked  away,  hand  in  hand,  and  I  lost 
sight  of  them  in  the  crowd.  I  was  not  sorry.  I  wondered 
how  he  could  tell  her. 

Ten  minutes  later,  having  attended  to  my  baggage,  I 
passed  out  of  the  station  and  saw  them  again.  The 
father  had  lifted  the  child  on  the  low  stone  wall  that 
runs  along  that  side  of  the  building,  and  was  talking  to 
her,  gently  and  seriously.  Her  big  eyes  were  fastened 
on  his  and  great  tears  were  pouring  unheeded  over  her 
cheeks.  She  still  held  her  apple.  The  box  was  tucked 
under  one  arm,  but  the  lid  was  gone  and  the  precious 
daisy  chains  were  hanging  out  of  it.  She  did  not  see  me, 
and  I  hurried  past  them. 

My  car  was  long  in  coming,  and  feeling  restless  I 
walked  a  square  or  two  and  let  it  overtake  me.  When 
I  seated  myself  in  it  I  found  to  my  regret  that  I  was 
face  to  face  with  the  father  and  child.  She  was  as  pale 
as  he,  now;  her  hat  hung  uncherished  at  the  back  of 
her  neck,  and  from  time  to  time  tears  rolled  down  her 
cheeks.  I  have  never  seen  another  face  bespeak  such 
utter  desolation. 


A  LITTLE   MOTHER  101 

Her  father  held  one  of  her  hands  tightly  clasped  in 
his,  but  for  some  minutes  neither  of  them  spoke.  Once 
or  twice  she  did  try  to  ask  him  something,  but  although 
she  opened  her  lips,  no  sound  came. 

At  length  he  said  gently,  "You'll  have  to  be  very 
good  to  me  now,  Ruth.  There's  no  one  else  to  take  care 
of  me." 

She  looked  up  at  him  then.  Her  eyes  brightened  a 
little  and  a  faint  smile  spread  slowly  over  her  tear- 
stained  face.  "Yes,  papa,"  she  answered,  with  a  little 
motherly  air;  and  sighed,  and  snuggled  closer  to  him. 

After  a  second  she  spoke  again,  rather  more  briskly: 
"You'd  better  eat  this  apple  right  away.  You  have  n't 
had  your  dinner,  and  it's  afternoon.  You  might  get 
sick,  if  you  are  n't  more  careful." 

He  took  the  apple  and  obediently  tried  to  eat  some 
of  it,  and  Ruth  watched  him  with  satisfaction.  "I'm 
going  to  take  such  good  care  of  you!"  she  whispered. 


MY  BABES  IN  THE  WOOD 

THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 

DURING  an  experience  of  seventeen  years  as  super 
visor  of  rural  schools  in  one  of  the  most  favored  counties 
in  the  South,  it  has  been  my  habit,  several  times  a  year, 
to  travel  twenty  or  thirty  miles  a  day,  often  for  five 
days  of  the  week,  visiting  schools. 

I  have  frequently  driven  for  hours  along  dreary 
stretches  of  sandy  road,  with  scrub  oaks  on  both  sides, 
here  and  there  a  pine  grove,  an  abandoned  field,  or 
sometimes  a  freshly  ploughed  one;  and  when  I  have 
reached  the  schoolhouse,  hidden  away  in  a  thicket,  and 
seen  thirty  or  forty  children,  I  have  wondered  where 
they  came  from.  No  house  appears  in  sight,  and  to 
one's  question,  the  teacher  answers,  "Oh,  they  come 
from  all  about  here,  from  two  to  three  miles." 

The  one-room  schoolhouse,  which  is  the  rule  here,  is 
generally  about  twenty  by  thirty  feet,  with  six  windows, 
two  doors,  no  piazza,  and  no  cloakroom.  Sometimes  it 
is  painted  —  white,  with  green  blinds,  the  inevitable 
combination  in  our  rural  districts.  A  flue  in  the  centre 
of  the  room  makes  an  outlet  for  the  stovepipe,  and  the 
stove  is  always  a  box  stove  for  wood,  holding  half  a 
dozen  sticks,  usually  of  the  rich  resinous  pine  so  abun 
dant  in  the  Southern  woods.  There  is  never  any  lack  of 
fuel  in  our  schools,  for  all  that  is  needed  is  to  organize 
the  large  boys  into  a  wood  brigade,  and  a  few  minutes' 


MY  BABES   IN  THE   WOOD  103 

foraging  in  the  neighborhood  provides,  without  cost,  an 
abundant  supply  for  the  day. 

The  teacher  hears  from  twenty  to  thirty  recitations  a 
day  in  all  grades,  from  the  A.B.C.  department  to  an 
occasional  class  in  Latin,  grammar,  and  algebra.  He 
begins  at  half-past  eight  in  the  morning,  giving  an  hour 
known  as  "noon  recess,"  and  dismisses  the  school  for 
the  day  at  four,  or  even  later,  in  time  for  the  children 
to  walk  home  before  dark. 

Such  conditions  give  rise  to  many  amusing  and  pa 
thetic  scenes.  I  recall  a  visit  I  made  over  fifteen  years 
ago  to  as  poor  an  apology  for  a  schoolhouse  as  existed 
anywhere  —  twenty-five  miles  from  town,  in  the  very 
back- woods.  I  rode  up,  tied  my  horse  to  a  tree,  and  went 
into  the  cabin  that  served  for  a  school.  There  was 
neither  window-sash  nor  glass,  only  shutters  to  keep  out 
the  light  and  let  in  the  cold;  there  were  no  desks  or  seats, 
only  long  benches  made  of  slabs  of  pine  fastened  to  sup 
ports,  with  pegs  driven  into  holes  at  each  end;  no  stove, 
only  a  large  open  fireplace  with  a  log  of  fat  lightwood 
smouldering  in  a  heap  of  ashes.  On  the  benches  sat 
twenty  or  thirty  pale,  thinly  clad,  trembling  children. 

The  teacher,  a  very  tall,  lanky,  yellow-haired  man,  sat 
in  a  low  chair,  and  when  he  rose  to  greet  me,  he  went 
up  like  an  extension  ladder.  He  gave  me  a  unique  and 
very  interesting  exhibition  exercise  in  reading,  which 
served  to  illustrate  what  might  be  going  on  in  the  rural 
schools.  He  called  up  his  pupils,  and  they  stood  in  line, 
forming  a  scale  from  a  lanky  six-footer  to  a  tiny  six- 
year-old.  The  reading  book  was  the  New  Testament  — 
old  and  dingy  copies  from  the  American  Bible  Society. 
The  class  opened  at  a  certain  page,  and  on  a  given  signal 


104  MY  BABES  IN  THE  WOOD 

started  in  concert,  every  pupil  reading  as  fast  as  he 
could  and  as  loud  as  he  could.  The  one  first  reaching 
the  bottom  of  the  page  held  up  his  hand  and  won  a 
small  card;  when  five  cards  had  been  thus  won,  the 
exercise  ended.  The  reading  sounded  like  bedlam;  but 
it  was  great  fun,  and  why  inquire  of  its  value?  Besides, 
it  was  instructive  in  the  matter  of  methods. 

After  several  other  exercises  of  a  similar  sort,  intended 
to  enliven  the  hour  and  instruct  the  visitor,  nothing 
would  do  but  that  I  must  make  a  speech  to  the  school. 
When  I  concluded  my  short  exhortation,  I  was  followed 
to  the  buggy  by  the  teacher,  who  commented  on  my 
visit  by  saying:  "I  am  glad  you  came  out  to  see  the 
school  to-day.  You  saw  us  in  our  everyday  clothes. 
Your  speech  was  good,  and  was  just  what  I  tell  them 
every  day.  A  variety  is  always  good,  however:  we 
ought  not  to  eat  cake  every  day,  but  sometimes  corn- 
bread  comes  in  mighty  well."  After  this  pleasant  com 
pliment,  I  departed  in  a  meditative  mood. 

I  recall  a  similar  visit,  on  which  I  came  near  losing 
my  dignity  while  making  a  speech  to  a  country  school. 
It  was  early  springtime,  and  the  children,  about  twenty 
in  number,  had  come  in  after  recess,  hot  and  panting 
from  their  play.  To  my  surprise,  every  now  and  then 
during  my  talk  I  saw  a  pupil  reach  under  the  bench, 
draw  out  a  big  whiskey  bottle,  and  take  a  long  pull. 
This  kept  going  on  all  over  the  room,  and  sometimes 
more  than  one  bottle  was  held  up  in  the  air,  to  the 
undisguised  satisfaction  of  the  drinkers.  I  was  much 
amused,  on  turning  round  to  ask  the  teacher  what  this 
meant,  to  catch  her  in  the  act  of  taking  a  drink  out  of  a 
bottle  bigger  and  blacker  than  any  of  the  others. 


105 

I  stopped,  and  said,  "What  are  you  all  drinking  so 
industriously?" 

The  teacher  answered,  "Water." 

"Well,  why  drink  it  that  way?"  I  inquired. 

The  teacher  replied,  "We  have  no  well  here,  and  no 
spring  inside  of  a  mile;  so  everybody  brings  a  bottle  of 
water  from  home  in  the  morning,  and  whiskey  bottles 
are  the  biggest  we  can  get." 

Some  time  ago  we  proposed  to  consolidate  the  schools 
in  one  of  our  rural  districts.  We  ordered  seven  small 
schools  to  be  closed,  hired  three  wagons  to  move  along 
the  highways  and  take  the  children  to  school,  enlarged 
one  of  the  buildings  to  accommodate  a  hundred  chil 
dren,  and  had  a  fine  programme  laid  out.  It  should  have 
been  successful,  but  it  came  to  grief,  because  every  man 
wanted  to  do  the  "hauling."  After  the  contract  was 
given  out,  one  man  said  he  was  not  going  to  trust  his 
children  behind  "them  old  runaway  mules";  another 
complained  of  the  driver,  who  was  accused  of  taking  a 
nip  on  a  cold  day;  and  a  third  objected  to  the  wagon. 
The  result  was  that  everybody  refused  to  be  hauled, 
and  the  wagons  went  back  and  forth  almost  empty  for 
a  month.  The  men  who  had  the  contract  for  a  dollar  a 
day  to  drive  the  wagons  hauled  nobody  but  their  own 
children.  They  were  content,  but  they  alone.  A  peti 
tion  with  many  signatures  came  up  before  the  Board  of 
Education,  and  the  committee  which  was  appointed  to 
go  over  the  whole  matter  declared  that  consolidation 
was  a  good  thing,  but  that  it  did  not  work.  So  the 
wagons  were  dismissed,  the  little  schools  were  reopened, 
and  the  district  is  now  drifting  along  sleepily,  with  its 
seven  separate  groups  of  twenty  to  twenty -five  children, 


106  MY  BABES   IN  THE   WOOD 

scattered  about  five  miles  apart.  The  plan  may  have 
been  badly  managed,  but  I  feel  sure  it  was  in  advance 
of  the  times.  Our  people  had  not  grown  up  to  it. 

Among  the  delightful  traditions  of  the  country  school 
are  the  closing  exercises,  or  "commencement,"  as  it  is 
called.  This  is  one  of  the  demands  made  upon  the 
schools  by  the  rural  population  that  cannot  be  refused. 
The  terrible  monotony  of  country  life  seeks  this  dissi 
pation,  and  the  community  for  ten  miles  around  gives 
itself  up  to  it.  Preparations  are  made  a  month  in 
advance;  and  when  the  time  comes,  every  child  in 
school  appears  several  times  on  the  programme,  and  the 
exercises  last  all  night. 

On  one  occasion  I  was  asked  to  "come  out  to  the 
closing"  of  one  of  the  best  country  schools  I  know  of, 
twenty -five  miles  from  town.  The  last  five  miles  I  went 
in  a  buggy  that  was  sent  to  meet  me.  After  an  early  sup 
per  at  a  neighbor's,  I  walked  to  the  schoolhouse  near  by, 
and  found  that  the  schoolroom  itself  was  to  be  used  as  a 
dressing-room,  the  piazza  had  been  enlarged  for  a  stage, 
and  the  audience  was  seated  in  the  open  air,  on  rough 
boards  laid  across  felled  trees  in  front  of  the  school. 
Blazing  pine  fires  on  stands  served  for  light.  An  audi 
ence  of  several  hundred  had  arrived  from  many  miles 
around,  driving  in  all  sorts  of  vehicles,  which  gradually 
closed  in  on  the  area  devoted  to  the  exercises,  until  it 
was  almost  impossible  to  get  through  the  packed  mass 
of  horses,  mules,  buggies,  and  wagons.  There  were  dogs 
and  babies  in  abundance.  The  night  was  as  soft  as  a 
June  night  in  the  South  can  be.  The  stars  were  bright 
above,  and  the  pine  forest  made  a  deep  black  curtain 
behind  the  blazing  red  fires  that  lit  the  grounds.  The 


MY  BABES   IN  THE   WOOD  107 

stage,  bright  with  lamps  and  Japanese  lanterns,  and 
decorated  with  pine  boughs  and  bamboo  vines,  fitted 
its  setting  admirably.  The  effect  of  night  and  space 
was  heightened,  as  the  exercises  went  on,  by  an  occa 
sional  wail  from  an  uncomfortable  baby,  a  fight  among 
the  numerous  dogs,  or  a  kicking  fit  of  a  suspicious  mule. 

There  were  forty  numbers  on  the  programme,  and  the 
exercises  began  promptly  at  nine  o'clock.  The  children 
did  their  part  well,  the  speeches  were  good,  the  songs 
were  sweet,  and  the  drills  were  interesting.  The  teacher 
had  paid  for  nearly  all  the  costumes,  selected  all  the 
pieces,  drilled  the  children,  and  staked  her  reputation 
on  the  success  of  the  performance.  It  is  pleasant  to  be 
able  to  say  that  the  occasion  was  a  memorable  one,  and 
the  exhausted  young  teacher  had  reason  to  be  proud  of 
her  triumph. 

The  hours  of  the  night  wore  slowly  on.  I  was  the 
guest  of  honor,  and  could  not  move  out  of  my  con 
spicuous  position;  so  with  patient  impartiality  I  laughed 
at  everything  and  applauded  everybody  for  five  labori 
ous  hours.  The  programme  came  to  an  end  at  half -past 
two  by  my  watch.  As  the  crowd  was  dispersing,  I  asked 
one  of  the  young  men  who  had  come  in  wagons  with 
their  best  girls,  how  far  he  expected  to  drive.  "Ten 
miles,"  he  answered;  and  added,  "then  get  breakfast 
and  go  to  ploughing." 


MIANTOWONA 

BY  THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 

LONG  ere  the  Pale  Face 

Crossed  the  Great  Water, 

Miantowona 

Passed,  with  her  beauty, 

Into  a  legend, 

Pure  as  a  wild-flower 

Found  in  a  broken 

Ledge  by  the  sea-side. 

Let  us  revere  them  — 
These  wildwood  legends, 
Born  of  the  camp-fire! 
Let  them  be  handed 
Down  to  our  children  — 
Richest  of  heirlooms! 
No  land  may  claim  them: 
They  are  ours  only, 
Like  our  grand  rivers, 
Like  our  vast  prairies, 
Like  our  dead  heroes ! 

In  the  pine-forest, 
Guarded  by  shadows, 
Lieth  the  haunted 
Pond  of  the  Red  Men. 
Ringed  by  the  emerald 
Mountains,  it  lies  there, 


Alfred  W.  Vutt 


'Far  in  the  ages, 
Miantowona, 
Rose  of  the  Hurons, 
Came  to  these  waters." 


110  MIANTOWONA 

Like  an  untarnished 
Buckler  of  silver, 
Dropped  in  that  valley 
By  the  Great  Spirit ! 
Weird  are  the  figures 
Traced  on  its  margins  — 
Vine- work  and  leaf -work, 
Knots  of  sword-grasses, 
Moonlight  and  starlight, 
Clouds  scudding  northward! 
Sometimes  an  eagle 
Flutters  across  it; 
Sometimes  a  single 
Star  on  its  bosom 
Nestles  till  morning. 

Far  in  the  ages, 

Miantowona, 

Rose  of  the  Hurons, 

Came  to  these  waters. 

Where  the  dank  greensward 

Slopes  to  the  pebbles, 

Miantowona 

Sat  in  her  anguish. 

Ice  to  her  maidens, 

Ice  to  the  chieftains, 

Fire  to  her  lover! 

Here  he  had  won  her, 

Here  they  had  parted, 

Here  could  her  tears  flow. 

With  unwet  eyelash, 
Miantowona 
Nursed  her  old  father, 
Oldest  of  Hurons, 


MIANTOWONA  111 

Soothed  his  complainings, 
Smiled  when  he  chid  her 
Vaguely  for  nothing  — 
He  was  so  weak  now, 
Like  a  shrunk  cedar 
White  with  the  hoar-frost. 
Sometimes  she  gently 
Linked  arms  with  maidens. 
Joined  in  their  dances; 
Not  with  her  people, 
Not  in  the  wigwam, 
Wept  for  her  lover. 

Ah!  who  was  like  him? 
Fleet  as  an  arrow, 
Strong  as  a  bison, 
Lithe  as  a  panther, 
Soft  as  the  south-wind, 
Who  was  like  Wawah? 
There  is  one  other 
Stronger  and  fleeter, 
Bearing  no  wampum, 
Wearing  no  war-paint, 
Huler  of  councils, 
Chief  of  the  war-path  — - 
Who  can  gainsay  him, 
Who  can  defy  him? 
His  is  the  lightning, 
His  is  the  whirlwind. 
Let  us  be  humble, 
We  are  but  ashes  — 
'T  is  the  Great  Spirit! 

Ever  at  nightfall 
Miantowona 


112  MIANTOWONA 

Strayed  from  the  lodges, 
Passed  through  the  shadows 
Into  the  forest; 
There  by  the  pond-side 
Spread  her  black  tresses 
Over  her  forehead. 
Sad  is  the  loon's  cry 
Heard  in  the  twilight; 
Sad  is  the  night-wind, 
Moaning  and  moaning; 
Sadder  the  stifled 
Sob  of  a  widow! 

Low  on  the  pebbles 
Murmured  the  water: 
Often  she  fancied 
It  was  young  Wawah 
Playing  the  reed-flute. 
Sometimes  a  dry  branch 
Snapped  in  the  forest : 
Then  she  rose,  startled, 
Ruddy  as  sunrise, 
Warm  for  his  coming! 
But  when  he  came  not, 
Back  through  the  darkness, 
Hah*  broken-hearted, 
Miantowona 
Went  to  her  people. 

When  an  old  oak  dies, 
First  't  is  the  tree-tops, 
Then  the  low  branches, 
Then  the  gaunt  stem  goes, 
So  fell  Tawanda, 
Oldest  of  Hurons, 
Chief  of  the  chieftains. 


MIANTOWONA  113 

Miantowona 
Wept  not,  but  softly 
Closed  the  sad  eyelids; 
With  her  own  fingers 
Fastened  the  deer-skin 
Over  his  shoulders; 
Then  laid  beside  him 
Ash-bow  and  arrows, 
Pipe-bowl  and  wampum, 
Dried  corn  and  bear-meat  — 
All  that  was  needful 
On  the  long  journey. 
Thus  old  Ta\vanda 
Went  to  the  hunting 
Grounds  of  the  Red  Man. 

Then,  as  the  dirges 
Rose  from  the  village, 
Miantowona 
Stole  from  the  mourners, 
Stole  through  the  cornfields, 
Passed  like  a  phantom 
Into  the  shadows 
Through  the  pine-forest. 

One  who  had  watched  her  — 
It  was  Nahoho, 
Loving  her  vainly  — 
Saw,  as  she  passed  him, 
That  in  her  features 
Made  his  stout  heart  quail. 
He  could  but  follow. 
Quick  were  her  footsteps, 
Light  as  a  snow-flake, 
Leaving  no  traces 
On  the  white  clover. 


114  MIANTOWONA 

Like  a  trained  runner, 
Winner  of  prizes, 
Into  the  woodlands 
Plunged  the  young  chieftain. 
Once  he  abruptly 
Halted,  and  listened; 
Then  he  sped  forward 
Faster  and  faster 
Toward  the  bright  water. 
Breathless  he  reached  it. 
Why  did  he  crouch  then, 
Stark  as  a  statue? 
What  did  he  see  there 
Could  so  appall  him? 
Only  a  circle 
Swiftly  expanding, 
Fading  before  him; 
But,  as  he  watched  it, 
Up  from  the  centre, 
Slowly,  superbly 
Rose  a  Pond-Lily. 

One  cry  of  wonder, 
Shrill  as  the  loon's  call, 
Rang  through  the  forest, 
Startling  the  silence, 
Startling  the  mourners 
Chanting  the  death-song. 
Forth  from  the  village, 
Flocking  together 
Came  all  the  Hurons  — 
Striplings  and  warriors, 
Maidens  and  old  men, 
Squaws  with  papooses. 
No  word  was  spoken: 


MIANTOWONA 

There  stood  the  Hurons 
On  the  dank  greensward, 
With  their  swart  faces 
Bowed  in  the  twilight. 
What  did  they  see  there? 
Only  a  Lily 
Rocked  on  the  azure 
Breast  of  the  water. 

Then  they  turned  sadly 
Each  to  the  other, 
Tenderly  murmuring, 
"Miantowona!" 
Soft  as  the  dew  falls 
Down  through  the  midnight, 
Cleaving  the  starlight, 
Echo  repeated, 
"Miantowona!" 


115 


Alfred  W.  Ctittin: 


OLD  TIMES  ON  THE   MISSISSIPPI 

BY  MARK  TWAIN  i 

WHAT  with  lying  on  the  rocks  four  days  at  Louisville, 
and  some  other  delays,  the  poor  old  Paul  Jones  fooled 
away  about  two  weeks  in  making  the  voyage  from  Cin 
cinnati  to  New  Orleans.  This  gave  me  a  chance  to  get 
acquainted  with  one  of  the  pilots,  and  he  taught  me 
how  to  steer  the  boat,  and  thus  made  the  fascination  of 
river-life  more  potent  than  ever  for  me. 

It  also  gave  me  a  chance  to  get  acquainted  with  a 
youth  who  had  taken  deck  passage  —  more's  the  pity; 
for  he  easily  borrowed  six  dollars  of  me  on  a  promise  to 
return  to  the  boat  and  pay  it  back  to  me  the  day  after 
we  should  arrive.  But  he  probably  died,  or  forgot,  for 
he  never  came. 

I  soon  discovered  two  things.  One  was  that  a  vessel 
would  not  be  likely  to  sail  for  the  mouth  of  the  Amazon 
under  ten  or  twelve  years;  and  the  other  was  that  the 
nine  or  ten  dollars  still  left  in  my  pocket  would  not  suf 
fice  for  so  imposing  an  exploration  as  I  had  planned, 
even  if  I  could  afford  to  wait  for  a  ship.  Therefore  it 
followed  that  I  must  contrive  a  new  carper.  The  Paul 
Jones  was  now  bound  for  St.  Louis.  I  planned  a  siege 
against  my  pilot,  and  at  the  end  of  three  hard  days  he 

1  Copyright,  1874  and  1875,  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 
Copyright,  1883,  1899,  1903,  by  Samuel  L.  Clemens. 
Copyright,  1911,  1919,  by  Clara  Gabrilowitsch. 


From"The  Kay's  Life  of  Mark  Twain,"  by  Albert  Bigelow  Paine, 
Harper  &  Brothers. 

SAM  CLEMENS  (MARK  TWAIN)  ON  "LOVER'S  LEAP' 
OVERLOOKING  THE  MISSISSIPPI  RIVER 


118     OLD  TIMES  ON  THE  MISSISSIPPI 

surrendered.  He  agreed  to  teach  me  the  Mississippi 
River  from  New  Orleans  to  St.  Louis  for  five  hundred 
dollars,  payable  out  of  the  first  wages  I  should  receive 
after  graduating. 

I  entered  upon  the  small  enterprise  of  "learning" 
twelve  or  thirteen  hundred  miles  of  the  great  Mississippi 
River  with  the  easy  confidence  of  my  time  of  life.  If  I 
had  really  known  what  I  was  about  to  require  of  my 
faculties,  I  should  not  have  had  the  courage  to  begin. 
I  supposed  that  all  a  pilot  had  to  do  was  to  keep  his 
boat  in  the  river,  and  I  did  not  consider  that  that  could 
be  much  of  a  trick,  since  it  was  so  wide. 

The  boat  backed  out  from  New  Orleans  at  four  in  the 
afternoon,  and  it  was  "our  watch"  until  eight.  Mr. 

B •,  my  chief,  "straightened  her  up,"  ploughed  her 

along  past  the  sterns  of  the  other  boats  that  lay  at  the 
Levee,  and  then  said,  "Here,  take  her;  shave  those 
steamships  as  close  as  you'd  peel  an  apple." 

I  took  the  wheel,  and  my  heart  went  down  into  my 
boots;  for  it  seemed  to  me  that  we  were  about  to  scrape 
the  side  off  every  ship  in  the  line,  we  were  so  close.  I 
held  my  breath  and  began  to  claw  the  boat  away  from 
the  danger;  and  I  had  my  own  opinion  of  the  pilot  who 
had  known  no  better  than  to  get  us  into  such  peril ;  but 
I  was  too  wise  to  express  it.  In  half  a  minute  I  had  a 
wide  margin  of  safety  intervening  between  the  Paul 
Jones  and  the  ships ;  and  within  ten  seconds  more  I  was 

set  aside  in  disgrace,  and  Mr.  B was  going  into 

danger  again  and  flaying  me  alive  with  abuse  of  my 
cowardice.  I  was  stung,  but  I  was  obliged  to  admire  the 
easy  confidence  with  which  my  chief  loafed  from  side  to 
side  of  his  wheel,  and  trimmed  the  ships  so  closely  that 


OLD   TIMES  ON  THE   MISSISSIPPI      119 

disaster  seemed  ceaselessly  imminent.  When  he  had 
cooled  a  little,  he  told  me  that  the  easy  water  was  close 
ashore  and  the  current  outside,  so  we  must  hug  the 
bank,  up-stream,  to  get  the  benefit  of  the  former,  and 
stay  well  out,  down-stream,  to  take  advantage  of  the  lat 
ter.  In  my  own  mind  I  resolved  to  be  a  down-stream 
pilot  and  leave  up-streaming  to  people  dead  to  prudence. 

Now  and  then  Mr.  B —  —  called  my  attention  to  cer 
tain  things.  Said  he,  "This  is  Six-Mile  Point."  I  as 
sented.  It  was  pleasant  enough  information,  but  I 
could  not  see  the  bearing  of  it.  I  was  not  conscious  that 
it  was  a  matter  of  any  interest  to  me.  Another  time  he 
said,  "This  is  Nine-Mile  Point."  Later  he  said,  "This 
is  Twelve-Mile  Point."  They  were  all  about  level  with 
the  water's  edge;  they  all  looked  about  alike  to  me;  they 
were  monotonously  unpicturesque.  I  hoped  Mr.  B — 
would  change  the  subject.  But  no;  he  would  crowd  up 
around  a  point,  hugging  the  shore  with  affection,  and 
then  say,  "The  slack  water  ends  here,  abreast  this 
bunch  of  China-trees ;  now  we  cross  over."  So  he  crossed 
over.  He  gave  me  the  wheel  once  or  twice,  but  I  had  no 
luck.  I  either  came  near  chipping  off  the  edge  of  a  sugar 
plantation,  or  else  I  yawed  too  far  from  shore;  and  so  I 
dropped  back  into  disgrace  again  and  got  abused. 

The  watch  was  ended  at  last,  and  we  took  supper  and 
went  to  bed.  At  midnight  the  glare  of  a  lantern  shone 
in  my  eyes,  and  the  night  watchman  said,  "Come!  turn 
out!"  And  then  he  left. 

I  could  not  understand  this  extraordinary  procedure ; 
so  I  presently  gave  up  trying  to,  and  dozed  off  to  sleep. 
Pretty  soon  the  watchman  was  back  again,  and  this 
time  he  was  gruff. 


120     OLD  TIMES  ON  THE  MISSISSIPPI 

I  was  annoyed.  I  said,  "What  do  you  want  to  come 
bothering  around  here  in  the  middle  of  the  night  for? 
Now  as  like  as  not  I'll  not  get  to  sleep  again  to-night." 

The  watchman  said,  "Well,  if  this  an't  good,  I'm 
blest!"  The  "off- watch"  was  just  turning  in,  and  I 
heard  some  brutal  laughter  from  them,  and  such  re 
marks  as  "Hello,  watchman!  an't  the  new  cub  turned 
out  yet?  He's  delicate,  likely.  Give  him  some  sugar  in 
a  rag  and  send  for  the  chambermaid  to  sing  rock-a-by- 
baby  to  him." 

About  this  time  Mr.  B appeared  on  the  scene. 

Something  like  a  minute  later  I  was  climbing  the  pilot 
house  steps  with  some  of  my  clothes  on  and  the  rest 
in  my  arms.  Mr.  B —  -  was  close  behind,  commenting. 
Here  was  something  fresh  —  this  thing  of  getting  up  in 
the  middle  of  the  night  to  go  to  work.  It  was  a  detail  in 
piloting  that  had  never  occurred  to  me  at  all.  I  knew 
that  boats  ran  all  night,  but  somehow  I  had  never  hap 
pened  to  reflect  that  somebody  had  to  get  up  out  of  a 
warm  bed  to  run  them.  I  began  to  fear  that  piloting 
was  not  quite  so  romantic  as  I  had  imagined  it  was: 
there  was  something  very  real  and  work-like  about  this 
new  phase  of  it. 

It  was  a  rather  dingy  night,  although  a  fair  number 
of  stars  were  out.  The  big  mate  was  at  the  wheel,  and 
he  had  the  old  tub  pointed  at  a  star  and  was  holding  her 
straight  up  the  middle  of  the  river.  The  shores  on  either 
hand  were  not  much  more  than  a  mile  apart,  but  they 
seemed  wonderfully  far  away  and  ever  so  vague  and 
indistinct. 

The  mate  said,  "We've  got  to  land  at  Jones's  planta 
tion,  sir." 


OLD   TIMES  ON  THE   MISSISSIPPI 

The  vengeful  spirit  in  me  exulted.  I  said  to  myself, 
"I  wish  you  joy  of  your  job;  you'll  have  a  good  time 
finding  Mr.  Jones's  plantation  such  a  night  as  this; 
and  I  hope  you  never  will  find  it  as  long  as  you  live." 

"Upper  end  of  the  plantation,  or  the  lower?"  said 
Mr.  B—  -  to  the  mate. 

"Upper." 

"I  can't  do  it.  The  stumps  there  are  out  of  the  water 
at  this  stage.  It's  no  great  distance  to  the  lower,  and 
you'll  have  to  get  along  with  that." 

"All  right,  sir.  If  Jones  don't  like  it  he'll  have  to 
lump  it,  I  reckon." 

And  then  the  mate  left.  My  exultation  began  to  cool 
and  my  wonder  to  come  up.  Here  was  a  man  who  not 
only  proposed  to  find  this  plantation  on  such  a  night, 
but  to  find  either  end  of  it  he  preferred.  I  dreadfully 
wanted  to  ask  a  question,  but  I  was  carrying  about  as 
many  short  answers  as  my  cargo-room  would  admit  of, 
so  I  held  my  peace.  All  I  desired  to  ask  Mr.  B —  -  was 
the  simple  question  whether  he  was  going  to  find  that 
plantation  on  a  night  when  all  plantations  were  exactly 
alike  and  all  the  same  color.  But  I  held  in.  I  used  to 
have  fine  inspirations  of  prudence  in  those  days. 

Mr.  B —  —  made  for  the  shore,  and  soon  was  scraping 
it,  just  the  same  as  if  it  had  been  daylight.  And  not 
only  that,  but  singing,  — 

"Father  in  heaven,  the  day  is  declining,"  etc. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  put  my  life  in  the  keeping  of 
a  peculiarly  reckless  outcast.  Presently  he  turned  on 
me  and  said,  "What's  the  name  of  the  first  point  above 
New  Orleans?" 


OLD  TIMES  ON  THE  MISSISSIPPI 

I  was  gratified  to  be  able  to  answer  promptly,  and  I 
did.  I  said  I  did  n't  know. 

" Don't  know?" 

This  manner  jolted  me.  I  was  down  at  the  foot  again, 
in  a  moment.  But  I  had  to  say  just  what  I  had  said 
before. 

"Well,  you're  a  smart  one,"  said  Mr.  B . 

"What's  the  name  of  the  next  point?" 

Once  more  I  did  n't  know. 

"Well  this  beats  anything.  Tell  me  the  name  of  any 
point  or  place  I  told  you." 

I  studied  a  while  and  decided  that  I  could  n't. 

"  Look-a-here !  What  do  you  start  out  from,  above 
Twelve-Mile  Point,  to  cross  over?  " 

"I  — I  — don't  know." 

"You  —  you  —  don't  know?"  mimicking  my  drawl 
ing  manner  of  speech.  "What  do  you  know?" 

"I  —  I  —  nothing,  for  certain." 

"By  the  great  Caesar's  ghost,  I  believe  you!  You're 
the  stupidest  dunderhead  I  ever  saw  or  ever  heard  of,  so 
help  me  Moses !  The  idea  of  you  being  a  pilot  —  you! 
Why,  you  don't  know  enough  to  pilot  a  cow  down  a 
lane!" 

Oh,  but  his  wrath  was  up!  He  was  a  nervous  man, 
and  he  shuffled  from  one  side  of  his  wheel  to  the  other 
as  if  the  floor  was  hot.  He  would  boil  a  while  to  him 
self,  and  then  overflow  and  scald  me  again. 

"Look-a-here!  What  do  you  suppose  I  told  you  the 
names  of  those  points  for?  " 

I  tremblingly  considered  a  moment,  and  then  the 
devil  of  temptation  provoked  me  to  say,  "  Well  —  to  — 
to  —  be  entertaining,  I  thought." 


OLD  TIMES  ON  THE   MISSISSIPPI     123 

This  was  a  red  rag  to  the  bull.  He  raged  and  stormed 
so  (he  was  crossing  the  river  at  the  time)  that  I  judge  it 
made  him  blind,  because  he  ran  over  the  steering-oar  of 
a  trading  scow.  Of  course  the  traders  sent  up  a  volley 
of  red-hot  profanity.  Never  was  a  man  so  grateful  as 
Mr.  B —  -  was:  because  he  was  brim-full,  and  here 
were  subjects  who  would  talk  back.  He  threw  open  a 
window,  thrust  his  head  out,  and  such  an  irruption  fol 
lowed  as  I  never  heard  before.  The  fainter  and  farther 
away  the  scowmen's  curses  drifted,  the  higher  Mr. 
B — —  lifted  his  voice,  and  the  weightier  his  adjectives 
grew.  When  he  closed  the  window  he  was  empty.  You 
could  have  drawn  a  seine  through  his  system  and  not 
caught  curses  enough  to  disturb  your  mother  with. 
Presently  he  said  to  me  in  the  gentlest  way:  - 

"My  boy,  you  must  get  a  little  memorandum-book, 
and  every  time  I  tell  you  a  thing,  put  it  down  right 
away.  There 's  only  one  way  to  be  a  pilot,  and  that  is  to 
get  this  entire  river  by  heart.  You  have  to  know  it  just 
like  A.B.C." 

That  was  a  dismal  revelation  to  me,  for  my  memory 
was  never  loaded  with  anything  but  blank  cartridges. 
However,  I  did  not  feel  discouraged  long.  I  judged  that 
it  was  best  to  make  some  allowances,  for  doubtless  Mr. 
B—  -  was  "  stretching."  Presently  he  pulled  a  rope  and 
struck  a  few  strokes  on  the  big  bell.  The  stars  were  all 
gone  now,  and  the  night  was  as  black  as  ink.  I  could 
hear  the  wheels  churn  along  the  bank,  but  I  was  not 
entirely  certain  that  I  could  see  the  shore.  The  voice  of 
the  invisible  watchman  called  up  from  the  hurricane 
deck :  - 

"What's  this,  sir?" 


124     OLD  TIMES  ON  THE  MISSISSIPPI 

"Jones's  plantation." 

I  said  to  myself,  "I  wish  I  might  venture  to  offer  a 
small  bet  that  it  is  n't."  But  I  did  not  chirp.  I  only 
waited  to  see.  Mr.  B—  -  handled  the  engine-bells,  and 
in  due  time  the  boat's  nose  came  to  the  land,  a  torch 
glowed  from  the  forecastle,  a  man  skipped  ashore,  a 
darky's  voice  on  the  bank  said,  "Gimme  de  carpet-bag, 
Mars'  Jones,"  and  the  next  moment  we  were  standing 
up  the  river  again,  all  serene.  I  reflected  deeply  a  while, 
and  then  said,  —  but  not  aloud,  —  "Well,  the  finding 
of  that  plantation  was  the  luckiest  accident  that  ever 
happened ;  but  it  could  n't  happen  again  in  a  hundred 
years."  And  I  fully  believed  it  was  an  accident,  too. 

By  the  time  we  had  gone  seven  or  eight  hundred 
miles  up  the  river,  I  had  learned  to  be  a  tolerably 
plucky  up-stream  steersman,  in  daylight,  and  before  we 
reached  St.  Louis  I  had  made  a  trifle  of  progress  in 
night-work,  but  only  a  trifle.  I  had  a  notebook  that 
fairly  bristled  with  the  names  of  towns,  "points,"  bars, 
islands,  bends,  reaches,  etc. ;  but  the  information  was  to 
be  found  only  in  the  notebook  —  none  of  it  was  in  my 
head.  It  made  my  heart  ache  to  think  I  had  only  got 
half  of  the  river  set  down;  for  as  our  watch  was  four 
hours  off  and  four  hours  on,  day  and  night,  there  was  a 
long  four-hour  gap  in  my  book  for  every  time  I  had 
slept  since  the  voyage  began. 

My  chief  was  presently  hired  to  go  on  a  big  New 
Orleans  boat,  and  I  packed  my  satchel  and  went  with 
him.  She  was  a  grand  affair.  When  I  stood  in  her  pilot 
house  I  was  so  far  above  the  water  that  I  seemed  perched 
on  a  mountain;  and  her  decks  stretched  so  far  away, 
fore  and  aft,  below  me,  that  I  wondered  how  I  could 


OLD   TIMES  ON  THE   MISSISSIPPI      125 

ever  have  considered  the  little  Paul  Jones  a  large  craft. 
There  were  other  differences,  too.  The  Paul  Jones's 
pilot-house  was  a  cheap,  dingy,  battered  rattle-trap, 
cramped  for  room :  but  here  was  a  sumptuous  glass  tem 
ple:  room  enough  to  have  a  dance  in;  showy  red  and 
gold  window-curtains;  an  imposing  sofa;  leather  cush 
ions  and  a  back  to  the  high  bench  where  visiting  pilots 
sit,  to  spin  yarns  and  "look  at  the  river";  bright,  fanci 
ful  "cuspadores"  instead  of  a  broad  wooden  box  filled 
with  sawdust;  nice  new  oilcloth  on  the  floor;  a  hospit 
able  big  stove  for  winter;  a  wheel  as  high  as  my  head, 
costly  with  inlaid  work;  a  wire  tiller-rope;  bright  brass 
knobs  for  the  bells;  and  a  tidy,  white-aproned,  black 
"texas-tender,"  to  bring  up  tarts  and  ices  and  coffee 
during  mid-watch,  day  and  night. 

Now  this  was  "something  like";  and  so  I  began  to 
take  heart  once  more,  to  believe  that  piloting  was  a 
romantic  sort  of  occupation  after  all.  The  moment  we 
were  under  way  I  began  to  prowl  about  the  great 
steamer  and  fill  myself  with  joy.  She  was  as  clean  and 
dainty  as  a  drawing-room;  when  I  looked  down  her 
long,  gilded  saloon,  it  was  like  gazing  through  a  splendid 
tunnel;  she  had  an  oil-picture,  by  some  gifted  sign- 
painter,  on  every  stateroom  door;  she  glittered  with  no 
end  of  prism-fringed  chandeliers;  the  clerk's  office  was 
elegant,  the  bar  was  marvelous,  and  the  bar-keeper  had 
been  barbered  and  upholstered  at  incredible  cost.  The 
boiler  deck  (that  is,  the  second  story  of  the  boat,  so  to 
speak)  was  as  spacious  as  a  church,  it  seemed  to  me;  so 
with  the  forecastle ;  and  there  was  no  pitiful  handful  of 
deckhands,  firemen,  and  roustabouts  down  there,  but  a 
whole  battalion  of  men.  The  fires  were  fiercely  glaring 


126     OLD  TIMES  ON  THE  MISSISSIPPI 

from  a  long  row  of  furnaces,  and  over  them  were  eight 
huge  boilers!  This  was  unutterable  pomp.  The  mighty 
engines  —  but  enough  of  this.  I  had  never  felt  so  fine 
before.  And  when  I  found  that  the  regiment  of  natty 
servants  respectfully  "sir"  'd  me,  my  satisfaction  was 
complete. 

When  I  returned  to  the  pilot-house,  St.  Louis  was 
gone  and  I  was  lost.  Here  was  a  piece  of  river  which  was 
all  down  in  my  book,  but  I  could  make  neither  head  nor 
tail  of  it:  you  understand,  it  was  turned  round.  I  had 
seen  it  when  coming  up-stream,  but  I  had  never  faced 
about  to  see  how  it  looked  when  it  was  behind  me.  My 
heart  broke  again,  for  it  was  plain  that  I  had  got  to  learn 
this  troublesome  river  both  ways. 

The  pilot-house  was  full  of  pilots,  going  down  to 
"look  at  the  river."  What  is  called  the  "upper  river" 
(the  two  hundred  miles  between  St.  Louis  and  Cairo, 
where  the  Ohio  comes  in)  was  low;  and  the  Mississippi 
changes  its  channel  so  constantly,  that  the  pilots  used 
always  to  find  it  necessary  to  run  down  to  Cairo  to  take 
a  fresh  look,  when  their  boats  were  to  lie  in  port  a  week, 
that  is,  when  the  water  was  at  a  low  stage.  A  deal  of  this 
"looking  at  the  river"  was  done  by  poor  fellows  who 
seldom  had  a  berth,  and  whose  only  hope  of  getting  one 
lay  in  their  being  always  freshly  posted  and  therefore 
ready  to  drop  into  the  shoes  of  some  reputable  pilot,  for 
a  single  trip,  on  account  of  such  pilot's  sudden  illness,  or 
some  other  necessity.  And  a  good  many  of  them  con 
stantly  ran  up  and  down,  inspecting  the  river,  not  because 
they  ever  really  hoped  to  get  a  berth,  but  because  (they 
being  guests  of  the  boat)  it  was  cheaper  to  "look  at  the 
river"  than  stay  ashore  and  pay  board.  In  time  these 


OLD   TIMES  ON  THE   MISSISSIPPI      127 

fellows  grew  dainty  in  their  tastes,  and  only  infested  boats 
with  an  established  reputation  for  setting  good  tables. 
All  visiting  pilots  were  useful,  for  they  were  always 
ready  and  willing,  winter  or  summer,  night  or  day,  to 
go  out  in  the  yawl  and  help  buoy  the  channel,  or  assist 
the  boat's  pilots  in  any  way  they  could.  They  were  like 
wise  welcome  because  all  pilots  are  tireless  talkers,  when 
gathered  together,  and  as  they  talk  only  about  the 
river  they  are  always  understood  and  are  always  inter 
esting.  Your  true  pilot  cares  nothing  about  anything 
on  earth  but  the  river,  and  his  pride  in  his  occupation 
surpasses  the  pride  of  kings. 

We  had  a  fine  company  of  these  river  inspectors  along, 
this  trip.  There  were  eight  or  ten;  and  there  was  abun 
dance  of  room  for  them  in  our  great  pilot-house.  Two  or 
three  of  them  wore  polished  silk  hats,  elaborate  shirt- 
fronts,  diamond  breastpins,  kid  gloves,  and  patent- 
leather  boots.  They  were  choice  in  their  English,  and 
bore  themselves  with  a  dignity  proper  to  men  of  solid 
means  and  prodigious  reputation  as  pilots.  The  others 
were  more  or  less  loosely  clad,  and  wore  tall  felt  cones 
suggestive  of  the  days  of  the  Commonwealth. 

I  was  a  cipher  in  this  august  company,  and  felt  sub 
dued,  not  to  say  torpid.  I  was  not  even  of  sufficient 
consequence  to  assist  at  the  wheel  when  it  was  necessary 
to  put  the  tiller  hard  down  in  a  hurry;  the  guest  who 
stood  nearest  did  that  when  occasion  required  —  and 
this  was  pretty  much  all  the  time,  because  of  the  crook 
edness  of  the  channel  and  the  scant  water 

I  stood  in  a  corner;  and  the  talk  I  listened  to  took  the 
hope  ail  out  of  me.  One  visitor  said  to  another,  "Jim, 
how  did  you  run  Plum  Point  coming  up?" 


128     OLD  TIMES  ON  THE  MISSISSIPPI 

"It  was  in  the  night  there,  and  I  ran  it  the  way  one  of 
the  boys  on  the  Diana  told  me;  started  out  about  fifty 
yards  above  the  wood-pile  on  the  false  point,  and  held  on 
the  cabin  under  Plum  Point  till  I  raised  the  reef,  — 
quarter  less  twain,  —  then  straightened  up  for  the  mid 
dle  bar  till  I  got  well  abreast  the  old  one-limbed  cotton- 
wood  in  the  bend,  then  got  my  stern  on  the  cotton- 
wood  and  head  on  the  low  place  above  the  point,  and 
came  through  a-booming  —  nine  and  a  half." 
"Pretty  square  crossing,  an't  it?" 
"Yes,  but  the  upper  bar's  working  down  fast." 
Another  spoke  up  and  said,  "I  had  better  water  than 
that,  and  ran  it  lower  down;  started  out  from  the  false 
point  —  mark  twain  —  raised  the  second  reef  abreast 
the  big  snag  in  the  bend,  and  had  quarter  less  twain." 
One  of  the  gorgeous  ones  remarked,  "I  don't  want  to 
find  fault  with  your  leadsmen,  but  that's  a  good  deal  of 
water  for  Plum  Point,  it  seems  to  me." 

There  was  an  approving  nod  all  around  as  this  quiet 
snub  dropped  on  the  boaster  and  "settled"  him.  And 
so  they  went  on  talk-talk-talking.  Meantime,  the  thing 
that  was  running  in  my  mind  was,  "Now  if  my  ears 
hear  aright,  I  have  not  only  to  get  the  names  of  all  the 
towns  and  islands  and  bends,  and  so  on,  by  heart,  but  I 
must  even  get  up  a  warm  personal  acquaintanceship 
with  every  old  snag  and  one-limbed  cotton-wood  and 
obscure  wood-pile  that  ornaments  the  banks  of  this 
river  for  twelve  hundred  miles;  and  more  than  that,  I 
must  actually  know  where  these  things  are  in  the  dark, 
unless  these  guests  are  gifted  with  eyes  that  can  pierce 
through  two  miles  of  solid  blackness ;  I  wish  the  piloting 
business  was  in  Jericho  and  I  had  never  thought  of  it." 


OLD  TIMES  ON  THE  MISSISSIPPI      129 

At  dusk  Mr.  B—  -  tapped  the  big  bell  three  times 
(the  signal  to  land),  and  the  captain  emerged  from  his 
drawing-room  in  the  forward  end  of  the  texas,  and 
looked  up  inquiringly. 

Mr.  B said,  "We  will  lay  up  here  all  night, 

captain." 

"Very  well,  sir." 

That  was  all.  The  boat  came  to  shore  and  was  tied  up 
for  the  night.  It  seemed  to  me  a  fine  thing  that  the 
pilot  could  do  as  he  pleased  without  asking  so  grand  a 
captain's  permission.  I  took  my  supper  and  went  im 
mediately  to  bed,  discouraged  by  my  day's  observations 
and  experiences.  My  late  voyage's  notebooking  was 
but  a  confusion  of  meaningless  names.  It  had  tangled 
me  all  up  in  a  knot  every  time  I  had  looked  at  it  in  the 
daytime.  I  now  hoped  for  respite  in  sleep;  but  no,  it 
reveled  all  through  my  head  till  sunrise  again,  a  frantic 
and  tireless  nightmare. 

Next  morning  I  felt  pretty  rusty  and  low-spirited. 
We  went  booming  along,  taking  a  good  many  chances, 
for  we  were  anxious  to  "get  out  of  the  river"  (as  getting 
out  to  Cairo  was  called)  before  night  should  overtake 
us.  But  Mr.  B —  — 's  partner,  the  other  pilot,  presently 
grounded  the  boat,  and  we  lost  so  much  time  getting  her 
off,  that  it  was  plain  the  darkness  would  overtake  us  a 
good  long  way  above  the  mouth.  This  was  a  great  mis 
fortune,  especially  to  certain  of  our  visiting  pilots,  whose 
boats  would  have  to  wait  for  their  return,  no  matter  how 
long  that  might  be.  It  sobered  the  pilot-house  talk  a 
good  deal.  Coming  up-stream,  pilots  did  not  mind  low 
water  or  any  kind  of  darkness;  nothing  stopped  them 
but  fog.  But  down-stream  work  was  different;  a  boat 


130     OLD  TIMES  ON  THE  MISSISSIPPI 

was  too  nearly  helpless,  with  a  stiff  current  pushing 
behind  her;  so  it  was  not  customary  to  run  down-stream 
at  night  in  low  water. 

There  seemed  to  be  one  small  hope,  however:  if  we 
could  get  through  the  intricate  and  dangerous  Hat 
Island  crossing  before  night,  we  could  venture  the  rest, 
for  we  would  have  plainer  sailing  and  better  water. 
But  it  would  be  insanity  to  attempt  Hat  Island  at  night. 
So  there  was  a  deal  of  looking  at  watches  all  the  rest  of 
the  day,  and  a  constant  ciphering  upon  the  speed  we 
were  making.  Hat  Island  was  the  eternal  subject;  some 
times  hope  was  high,  and  sometimes  we  were  delayed 
in  a  bad  crossing,  and  down  it  went  again.  For  hours 
all  hands  lay  under  the  burden  of  this  suppressed  excite 
ment;  it  was  even  communicated  to  me,  and  I  got  to 
feeling  so  solicitous  about  Hat  Island,  and  under  such 
an  awful  pressure  of  responsibility,  that  I  wished  I 
might  have  five  minutes  on  shore  to  draw  a  good,  full, 
relieving  breath,  and  start  over  again.  We  were  stand 
ing  no  regular  watches.  Each  of  our  pilots  ran  such  por 
tions  of  the  river  as  he  had  run  when  coming  up-stream, 
because  of  his  greater  familiarity  with  it;  but  both 
remained  in  the  pilot-house  constantly. 

An  hour  before  sunset,  Mr.  B took  the  wheel, 

and  Mr.  W stepped  aside.  For  the  next  thirty 

minutes  every  man  held  his  watch  in  his  hand  and  was 
restless,  silent,  and  uneasy.  At  last  somebody  said,  with 
a  doomful  sigh,  "Well,  yonder 's  Hat  Island  —  and  we 
can't  make  it." 

All  the  watches  closed  with  a  snap,  everybody  sighed 
and  muttered  something  about  its  being  "too  bad,  too 
bad  —  ah,  if  we  could  only  have  got  here  half  an  hour 


OLD  TIMES  ON  THE  MISSISSIPPI      131 

sooner! "  and  the  place  was  thick  with  the  atmosphere  of 
disappointment.  Some  started  to  go  out,  but  loitered, 
hearing  no  bell-tap  to  land.  The  sun  dipped  behind  the 
horizon;  the  boat  went  on.  Inquiring  looks  passed  from 
one  guest  to  another;  and  one  who  had  his  hand  on  the 
door-knob,  and  had  turned  it,  waited,  then  presently 
took  away  his  hand  and  let  the  knob  turn  back  again. 
We  bore  steadily  down  the  bend.  More  looks  were  ex 
changed,  and  nods  of  surprised  admiration  —  but  no 
words.  Insensibly  the  men  drew  together  behind  Mr. 

B ,  as  the  sky  darkened  and  one  or  two  dim  stars 

came  out.  The  dead  silence  and  sense  of  waiting  became 
oppressive. 

Mr.  B—  -  pulled  the  cord,  and  two  deep,  mellow 
notes  from  the  big  bell  floated  off  on  the  night.  Then  a 
pause,  and  one  more  note  was  struck.  The  watchman's 
voice  followed,  from  the  hurricane  deck,  "Labboard 
lead,  there!  Stabboard  lead!" 

The  cries  of  the  leadsmen  began  to  rise  out  of  the  dis 
tance,  and  were  gruffly  repeated  by  the  word-passers  on 
the  hurricane  deck. 

"M-a-r-k  three!  M-a-r-k  three!  Quarter-less-three! 
Half  twain!  Quarter  twain!  M-a-r-k  twain!  Quarter- 
less  —  " 

Mr.  B—  —  pulled  two  bell-ropes,  and  was  answered  by 
faint  jinglings  far  below  in  the  engine-room,  and  our 
speed  slackened.  The  steam  began  to  whistle  through 
the  gauge-cocks.  The  cries  of  the  leadsmen  went  on  — 
and  it  is  a  weird  sound,  always,  in  the  night.  Every 
pilot  in  the  lot  was  watching  now,  with  fixed  eyes,  and 
talking  under  his  breath.  Nobody  was  calm  and  easy 
but  Mr.  B .  He  would  put  his  wheel  down  and  stand 


132     OLD  TIMES  ON  THE  MISSISSIPPI 

on  a  spoke,  and  as  the  steamer  swung  in  to  her  (to  me) 
utterly  invisible  marks,  —  for  we  seemed  to  be  in  the 
midst  of  a  wide  and  gloomy  sea,  —  he  would  meet  and 
fasten  her  there.  Talk  was  going  on  now,  in  low  voices. 

"There;  she's  over  the  first  reef  all  right!" 

After  a  pause,  another  subdued  voice:  "Her  stern's 
coming  down  just  exactly  right,  by  George!  Now  she's 
in  the  marks;  over  she  goes!" 

Somebody  else  muttered,  "Oh,  it  was  done  beautiful 
—  beautiful!" 

Now  the  engines  were  stopped  altogether,  and  we 
drifted  with  the  current.  Not  that  I  could  see  the  boat 
drift,  for  I  could  not,  the  stars  being  all  gone  by  this 
time.  This  drifting  was  the  dismalest  work;  it  held  one's 
heart  still.  Presently  I  discovered  a  blacker  gloom  than 
that  which  surrounded  us.  It  was  the  head  of  the  island. 
We  were  closing  right  down  upon  it.  We  entered  its 
deeper  shadow,  and  so  imminent  seemed  the  peril  that  I 
was  likely  to  suffocate;  and  I  had  the  strongest  impulse 
to  do  something,  anything,  to  save  the  vessel.  But  still 

Mr.  B stood  by  his  wheel,  silent,  intent  as  a  cat, 

and  all  the  pilots  stood  shoulder  to  shoulder  at  his  back. 

"She'll  not  make  it!"  somebody  whispered. 

The  water  grew  shoaler  and  shoaler  by  the  leadsmen's 
cries,  till  it  was  down  to  "Eight-and-a-half!  E-i-g-h-t 
feet!  E-i-g-h-t  feet!  Seven-and  —  " 

Mr.  B said  warningly  through  his  speaking-tube 

to  the  engineer,  "Stand  by,  now!" 

"Aye-aye,  sir." 

"Seven-and-a-half!  Seven  feet!  Six-and  —  " 

We  touched  bottom !  Instantly  Mr.  B set  a  lot  of 

bells  ringing,  shouted  through  the  tube,  "Now  let  her 


OLD  TIMES  ON  THE  MISSISSIPPI      133 

have  it  —  every  ounce  you've  got!"  Then  to  his  part 
ner,  "Put  her  hard  down!  snatch  her!  snatch  her!" 

The  boat  rasped  and  ground  her  way  through  the 
sand,  hung  upon  the  apex  of  disaster  a  single  tremend 
ous  instant,  and  then  over  she  went!  And  such  a  shout 

as  went  up  at  Mr.  B 's  back  never  loosened  the  roof 

of  a  pilot-house  before! 

There  was  no  more  trouble  after  that.  Mr.  B was 

a  hero  that  night;  and  it  was  some  little  time,  too, 
before  his  exploit  ceased  to  be  talked  about  by  river 
men. 

Fully  to  realize  the  marvelous  precision  required  in 
laying  the  great  steamer  in  her  marks  in  that  murky 
waste  of  water,  one  should  know  that,  not  only  must 
she  pick  her  intricate  way  through  snags  and  blind  reefs, 
and  then  shave  the  head  of  the  island  so  closely  as  to 
brush  the  overhanging  foliage  with  her  stern,  but  at  one 
place  she  must  pass  almost  within  arm's  reach  of  a 
sunken  and  invisible  wreck  that  would  snatch  the  hull 
timbers  from  under  her  if  she  should  strike  it,  and 
destroy  a  quarter  of  a  million  dollars'  worth  of  steam 
boat  and  cargo  in  five  minutes,  and  maybe  a  hundred 
and  fifty  human  lives  into  the  bargain. 

The  last  remark  I  heard  that  night  was  a  compliment 

to  Mr.  B ,  uttered  in  soliloquy  and  with  unction  by 

one  of  our  guests.  He  said:  "By  the  Shadow  of  Death, 
but  he's  a  lightning  pilot!" 


THE  BIRD  WITH  THE  BROKEN  PINION 

THE   CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 

EVEN  when  he  first  appeared,  intoxicated,  in  the 
prayer-meeting  which  my  father  was  conducting,  he 
was  both  witty  and  polite.  He  bowed  ceremoniously 
when  he  entered;  he  remarked  aloud,  as  he  realized  that 
he  held  his  hymn-book  by  the  wrong  end,  that  it  was  a 
great  accomplishment  to  be  able  to  read  upside  down; 
he  bowed  politely  again  as  he  was  escorted  to  the  door 
by  two  elders.  There  he  thanked  them.  He  was  tall  and 
dignified  and  fairly  well  dressed,  and  he  spoke  like  a 
gentleman.  The  subject  of  the  prayer-meeting  lesson 
was  temperance,  and  father,  who  enjoys  coincidences, 
found  in  him  an  appropriate  illustration. 

In  the  morning,  he  called  at  our  side  door.  He  was 
out  of  work,  he  wished  a  trifling  loan;  it  was  a  humilia 
ting  errand,  but  he  trusted  the  kind  heart  of  a  clergy 
man  to  understand  his  necessity.  He  was  helped,  not 
with  money,  but  with  food,  warm  underwear,  a  hat  that 
was  better  than  his,  and  with  advice.  Father  likes  to  set 
things  straight,  whether  it  be  a  crooked  road  or  a 
crooked  character,  and  his  advice,  which  is  sensible  and 
tactful,  is  often  taken. 

"I,  intoxicated  in  the  house  of  God!"  The  stranger 
was  overwhelmed.  "  I,  disturb  a  religious  service !  I  was 
brought  up  to  know  better  than  that,  sir.  I  hope  you 
will  apologize  for  me  to  your  people.  Ah,  sir," —  and 


THE  BIRD  WITH  THE  BROKEN  PINION     135 

here  the  stranger  sighed,  deeply  and  profoundly,  — "the 
bird  with  the  broken  pinion  never  soars  so  high  again! " 

Thus  did  he  name  himself,  and  thus  did  we  call  him 
among  ourselves  throughout  the  two  years  during  which 
he  came  regularly  to  see  us.  Once  every  two  or  three 
weeks  he  appeared,  had  a  meal  in  the  kitchen  or  on  the 
back  porch,  talked  for  an  hour  or  two,  and  departed. 
He  was  always  polite,  always  entertaining,  always  will 
ing  to  listen  and  to  talk.  We  valued  his  remarks,  his 
comments  upon  life,  his  extraordinary  and  mysterious 
knowledge.  Where  he  acquired  it,  where  he  came  from, 
where  he  went  to,  we  do  not  know  to  this  day. 

To  our  father  he  discoursed  about  predestination,  of 
him  he  made  polite  and  interested  inquiry  about  the 
tenets  of  our  own  faith,  —  which  does  not  include 
the  above  astonishing  belief!  With  him  he  argued  — 
to  mention  only  a  few  of  the  subjects  to  which  he  gave 
his  thought  —  about  the  destiny  of  man,  the  existence 
of  angels,  and  the  sad  and  strange  difference  between 
the  individual  and  corporate  conscience  of  the  citizens 
of  our  ancient,  proud,  and  somewhat  mismanaged  State 
of  Pennsylvania. 

To  my  mother,  when  he  came  upon  her  in  the  garden, 
he  held  forth  about  rare  flowers;  to  the  oldest  of  my 
brothers  he  talked  about  Europe,  whither  he  claimed  to 
have  been,  and  about  football  and  cricket  and  airships; 
for  the  youngest  of  us  he  spread  down  a  magic  carpet 
upon  which  the  two  sped  forth  to  the  ends  of  the  earth. 
Sometimes  I  eavesdropped,  —  indeed,  there  was  almost 
always  one  of  us  eavesdropping, —  and  I  recognized 
many  of  the  familiar  doings  of  Sinbad  and  Don  Quix 
ote,  and  even  of  the  glorious  Greek. 


136    THE  BIRD  WITH  THE  BROKEN  PINION 

With  me,  the  bird  of  the  broken  pinion  ventured  upon 
distinctly  literary  topics.  Somewhere  he  had  come 
across  a  story  signed  by  my  name,  and  he  had  read  it 
with  flattering  attention.  He  even  suggested  an  im 
provement.  Occasionally  he  presented  me  with  news 
paper  clippings,  giving  incidents  which  he  thought 
would  make  "copy."  Several  of  them  I  have  used  to  ad 
vantage.  He  had  read  widely;  his  slips  in  grammar  and 
rhetoric  made  his  acquaintance  with  Arnold  and  Steven 
son  all  the  more  mysterious.  What  was  he:  a  wandering 
son  of  some  English  manse,  —  his  education  seemed  to 
have  been  English,  —  a  scholar  gypsy,  not  "pensive  and 
tongue-tied,"  but  cheerful  and  loquacious;  not  free,  but 
fettered  by  his  own  weakness? 

For  two  years  he  came,  for  two  years  he  asked  and 
was  given  alms,  for  two  years  he  was  advised  and  ex 
horted.  He  always  expressed  great  interest  in  the  wel 
fare  of  his  soul. 

"I  do  try,  I  will  try,"  he  would  say,  humbly,  the  smell 
of  liquor  strongly  upon  him.  "  I  am  sure,  sir,  I  am  grate 
ful  to  you." 

Never  until  the  end  —  and  father  calculated  after 
wards  that  during  the  two  years  of  his  visitations  he 
had  been  advised  at  least  forty  times  —  never  until  the 
end  did  he  show  any  impatience,  any  resentment.  He 
never  reminded  the  head  of  our  household  that,  though 
his  pinions  may  have  suffered,  he  was  no  longer  a  fledge 
ling,  and  that  his  character  was  formed  beyond  hope 
of  change.  He  listened  politely  even  when  little  Bobby 
admonished  him.  And  even  at  the  end  he  was  polite. 

It  was  one  summer  evening  at  supper-time  that  he 
appeared  on  the  porch  opening  from  the  dining-room. 


THE  BIRD  WITH  THE  BROKEN  PINION    137 

Father  had  finished  his  supper  and  went  out  to  speak  to 
him,  and  the  rest  of  us  sat  still,  anticipating  the  pleas 
ure  that  his  conversation  always  gave  us.  The  day  had 
been  intensely  warm,  and  father  was  uncomfortable. 
So,  also,  may  have  been  our  friend.  Father  did  not  wait 
until  his  unfailing  charity  had  opened  the  way  for  ad 
vice:  he  began  immediately  on  the  man,  who  was  for 
once  unshaven,  out  at  elbows,  and  disreputable. 

"Well,"  said  father  with  sharpness  unlike  him,  "have 
you  been  keeping  straight?" 

The  man  rose;  he  spoke  jauntily,  as  one  perfectly 
self-sufficient,  perfectly  satisfied  with  life  —  a  state  of 
mind  which  is,  on  a  hot  day  at  least,  most  enviable. 

"Doctor,"  he  said,  "I  saw  a  clipping  some  time  ago 
that  I  thought  would  interest  you." 

He  opened  the  old  wallet  from  which  he  used  to  take 
clippings  for  me,  and  handed  a  little  paper  to  father, 
went  down  the  steps  and  out  the  walk.  Father  made  an 
incoherent  noise  in  his  throat,  then  called  to  our  friend, 
who  did  not  come  back.  He  has  never  come  back. 

I  suppose  he  could  endure  us  no  longer  —  our  curi 
osity,  our  Pharisaism,  our  reforming  zeal.  He  had 
amused  us,  entertained  us,  for  two  years,  and  we  had 
never  forgotten  that  he  was  a  tramp.  And  he  had  done 
us  good,  not  only  with  the  example  of  his  good  temper, 
but  with  his  reproof.  If  he  still  reads  the  Atlantic 
Monthly,  will  he  accept  this  as  an  apology  from  us  all 
and  a  confession  of  our  own  bad  manners? 

For  the  title  of  the  clipping  —  father  brought  it  in 
and  read  it  aloud  and  joined  in  the  rueful  laugh  which 
greeted  it  —  the  title  of  the  clipping  was,  "On  the  Ex 
cellent  Virtue  of  Minding  One's"  Own  Business!" 


THE  SAILING  OF  KING  OLAF 

BY  ALICE  WILLIAMS  BROTHERTON 

"NoRROWAY  hills  are  grand  to  see, 

Norroway  vales  are  broad  and  fair: 
Any  monarch  on  earth  might  be 

Contented  to  find  his  kingdom  there!" 
So  spake  Harald  Haardrade  bold 
To  Olaf,  his  brother,  with  red-gold. 

"A  bargain!"  cried  Olaf.     "Beside  the  strand 

Our  ships  rock  idle.     Come,  sail  away! 
Who  first  shall  win  to  our  native  land, 
He  shall  be  king  of  old  Norroway." 

Quoth  Harald  the  Stern,  "My  vessel  for  thine, 
I  will  not  trust  to  this  laggard  of  mine." 

"Take  thou  my  Dragon  with  silken  sails," 

Said  Olaf.     "The  Ox  shall  be  mine  in  place. 
If  it  pleases  our  Lord  to  send  me  gales, 
In  either  vessel  I  '11  win  the  race. 
With  this  exchange  art  satisfied?" 
"Ay,  brother,"  the  crafty  one  replied. 

King  Olaf  strode  to  the  church  to  pray 

For  blessing  of  God  on  crew  and  ship; 
But  Harald,  the  traitor,  made  haste  to  weigh 
His  anchor,  and  out  of  the  harbor  slip. 

" Pray ! "  laughed  Harald  Haardrade.     "Pray! 
The  wind 's  in  my  favor.     Set  sail!    Away!" 


THE  SAILING  OF  KING  OLAF         139 

As  Olaf  knelt  by  the  chancel  rail, 

Down  the  broad  aisle  came  one  in  haste, 
With  panting  bosom  and  cheeks  all  pale; 
Straight  to  King  Olaf  s  side  he  paced. 
"Oh,  waste  no  time  in  praying,"  cried  he, 
"For  Harald  already  is  far  at  sea!" 

But  Olaf  answered:  "Let  sail  who  will, 

Without  God's  blessing  I  shall  not  go." 
Beside  the  altar  he  tarried  still, 

While  the  good  priest  chanted  soft  and  slow; 
And  Olaf  prayed  the  Lord  in  his  heart, 
"I  shall  win  yet  if  thou  take  my  part!" 

Cheerily  then  he  leaped  on  board; 

High  on  the  prow  he  took  his  stand. 
"Forward,"  he  bade,  "in  the  name  of  the  Lord!" 
Held  the  white  horn  of  the  Ox  in  his  hand: 
"Now,  Ox!  good  Ox!  I  pray  thee  speed 
As  if  to  pasture  in  clover-mead!" 

The  huge  Ox  rolled  from  side  to  side, 
And  merrily  out  of  the  harbor  sped. 
"Dost  see  the  Dragon?"  King  Olaf  cried 

To  the  lad  who  clung  to  the  high  mast-head. 
"Not  so!"  the  watcher  swift  answer  gave; 
"There  is  never  a  boat  upon  the  wave." 

Onward  then  for  a  league  and  twain, 

Right  in  the  teeth  of  the  wind  they  flew. 
"Seest  aught  of  the  Dragon  upon  the  main?" 
"Something  to  landward  sure  I  view! 
Far  ahead  I  can  just  behold 
Silken  sails  with  a  border  of  gold." 


140         THE  SAILING  OF  KING  OLAF 

The  third  time  Olaf  called  with  a  frown : 

"Dost  see  my  Dragon  yet?    Ho!  Say!" 
Out  of  the  mast-head  the  cry  came  down : 
"Nigh  to  the  shores  of  Norroway 
The  good  ship  Dragon  rides  full  sail, 
Driving  ahead  before  the  gale!" 

"Ho!  to  the  haven!"  King  Olaf  cried, 

And  smote  the  eye  of  the  Ox  with  his  hand. 
It  leaped  so  madly  along  the  tide 

That  never  a  sailor  on  deck  could  stand; 
But  Olaf  lashed  them  firm  and  fast 
With  trusty  cords  to  the  strong  oak  mast. 

"Now,  who,"  the  helmsman  said,  "will  guide 

The  vessel  upon  the  tossing  sea?" 
"That  will  I  do!"  King  Olaf  cried; 

"And  no  man's  life  shall  be  lost  through  me." 
Like  a  living  coal  his  dark  eye  glowed 
As  swift  to  the  helmsman's  place  he  strode. 

Looking  neither  to  left  nor  right, 

Toward  the  land  he  sailed  right  in, 
Steering  straight  as  a  line  of  light: 
"So  must  I  run  if  I  would  win; 
Faith  is  stronger  than  hills  or  rocks. 
Over  the  land  speed  on,  good  Ox!" 

Into  the  valleys  the  waters  rolled; 

Hillocks  and  meadows  disappeared. 
Grasping  the  helm  in  his  iron  holds 
On,  right  onward,  St.  Olaf  steered; 
High  and  higher  the  blue  waves  rose. 
" On ! "  he  shouted.     "No  time  to  lose ! " 


THE   SAILING  OF  KING   OLAF         141 

Out  came  running  the  elves  in  a  throng; 
Out  from  cavern  and  rock  they  came : 
"Now,  who  is  this  comes  sailing  along 

Over  our  homes?     Ho!  tell  us  thy  name !" 
"I  am  St.  Olaf,  my  little  men! 
Turn  into  stones  till  I  come  again." 

The  elf -stones  rolled  down  the  mountain  side; 

The  sturdy  Ox  sailed  over  them  all. 
"Ill  luck  be  with  thee!"  a  Carline  cried; 

"Thy  ship  has  shattered  my  chamber  wall!" 
In  Olaf 's  eyes  flashed  a  fiery  glint : 
"Be  turned  forever  to  rock  of  flint!" 

Never  was  sailing  like  this  before : 

He  shot  an  arrow  along  the  wind, 
Or  ever  it  lighted  the  ship  sailed  o'er 
The  mark;  the  arrow  fell  far  behind. 
"Faster,  faster!"  cried  Olaf.     "Skip 
Fleet  as  Skidbladnir,  the  magic  ship!" 

Swifter  and  swifter  across  the  foam 

The  quivering  Ox  leaped  over  the  track, 
Till-Olaf  came  to  his  boyhood's  home; 
Then,  fast  as  it  rose,  the  tide  fell  back. 

And  Olaf  was  king  of  the  whole  Norse  land 
When  Harald  the  third  day  reached  the  strand. 

Such  was  the  sailing  of  Olaf,  the  king, 

Monarch  and  saint  of  Norroway; 
In  view  of  whose  wondrous  prospering 
The  Norse  have  a  saying  unto  this  day: 
"As  Harald  Haardrade  found  to  his  cost, 
Time  spent  in  praying  is  never  lost!" 


THE   ROMANCE   OF  A   ROSE 

BY  NORA  PERRY 

IT  is  nearly  a  hundred  years  ago, 

Since  the  day  that  the  Count  de  Rochambeau  — 

Our  ally  against  the  British  crown  — 

Met  Washington  in  Newport  town. 

'  Twas  the  month  of  March,  and  the  air  was  chil!9 
But  bareheaded  over  Aquidneck  hill, 
Guest  and  host  they  took  their  way, 
While  on  either  side  was  the  grand  array 

Of  a  gallant  army,  French  and  fine, 
Ranged  three  deep  in  glittering  line; 
And  the  French  fleet  sent  a  welcome  roar 
Of  a  hundred  guns  from  Conanicut  shore. 

And  the  bells  rang  out  from  every  steeple, 
And  from  street  to  street  the  Newport  people 
Followed  and  cheered,  with  a  hearty  zest, 
De  Rochambeau  and  his  honored  guest. 

And  women  out  of  the  windows  leant, 
And  out  of  the  windows  smiled  and  sent 
Many  a  coy  admiring  glance 
To  the  fine  young  officers  of  France. 


THE  ROMANCE   OF  A  ROSE  143 

And  the  story  goes,  that  the  belle  of  the  town 
Kissed  a  rose  and  flung  it  down 
Straight  at  the  feet  of  De  Rochambeau; 
And  the  gallant  marshal,  bending  low, 

Lifted  it  up  with  a  Frenchman's  grace, 
And  kissed  it  back,  with  a  glance  at  the  face 
Of  the  daring  maiden  where  she  stood, 
Blushing  out  of  her  silken  hood. 

That  night  at  the  ball,  still  the  story  goes, 
The  Marshal  of  France  wore  a  faded  rose 
In  his  gold-laced  coat;  but  he  looked  in  vain 
For  the  giver's  beautiful  face  again. 

Night  after  night,  and  day  after  day, 
The  Frenchman  eagerly  sought,  they  say, 
At  feast,  or  at  church,  or  along  the  street, 
For  the  girl  who  flung  her  rose  at  his  feet. 

And  she,  night  after  night,  day  after  day, 
Was  speeding  farther  and  farther  away 
From  the  fatal  window,  the  fatal  street, 
Where  her  passionate  heart  had  suddenly  beat 

A  throb  too  much  for  the  cool  control 

A  Puritan  teaches  to  heart  and  soul ; 

A  throb  too  much  for  the  wrathful  -eyes 

Of  one  who  had  watched  in  dismayed  surprise 

From  the  street  below;  and  taking  the  gauge 
Of  a  woman's  heart  in  that  moment's  rage, 
He  swore,  this  old  colonial  squire, 
That  before  the  daylight  should  expire, 


144  THE  ROMANCE  OF  A  ROSE 

This  daughter  of  his,  with  her  wit  and  grace, 
And  her  dangerous  heart  and  her  beautiful  face, 
Should  be  on  her  way  to  a  sure  retreat, 
Where  no  rose  of  hers  could  fall  at  the  feet 

Of  a  cursed  Frenchman,  high  or  low. 
And  so,  while  the  Count  de  Rochambeau, 
In  his  gold-laced  coat  wore  a  faded  flower, 
And  awaited  the  giver  hour  by  hour, 

She  was  sailing  away  in  the  wild  March  night 
On  the  little  deck  of  the  sloop  Delight, 
Guarded  even  in  the  darkness  there 
By  the  wrathful  eyes  of  a  jealous  care. 

Three  weeks  after,  a  brig  bore  down 
Into  the  harbor  of  Newport  town, 
Towing  a  wreck  —  'twas  the  sloop  Delight; 
Off  Hampton  rocks,  in  the  very  sight 

Of  the  land  she  sought,  she  and  her  crew 
And  all  on  board  of  her,  full  in  view 
Of  the  storm-bound  fishermen  over  the  bay, 
Went  to  their  doom  on  that  April  day. 

When  Rochambeau  heard  the  terrible  tale, 
He  muttered  a  prayer,  for  a  moment  grew  pale; 
Then  "Mon  Dieu,"  he  exclaimed,  "so  my  fine  romance 
From  beginning  to  end  is  a  rose  and  a  glance." 


THE  AMERICAN  MIRACLE 

BY  MARY  ANTIN 

OUR  initiation  into  American  ways  began  with  the 
first  step  on  the  new  soil.  My  father  found  occasion  to 
instruct  or  correct  us  even  on  the  way  from  the  pier  to 
Wall  Street,  which  journey  we  made  crowded  together 
in  a  rickety  cab.  He  told  us  not  to  lean  out  of  the  win 
dows,  not  to  point,  and  explained  the  word  "green 
horn."  We  did  not  want  to  be  greenhorns,  and  gave  the 
strictest  attention  to  my  father's  instructions.  I  do  not 
know  when  my  parents  found  opportunity  to  review 
together  the  history  of  Polotzk  in  the  three  years  past, 
for  we  children  had  no  patience  for  the  subject:  my 
mother's  narrative  was  constantly  interrupted  by  irrel 
evant  questions,  interjections,  and  explanations. 

The  first  meal  was  an  object  lesson  of  much  variety. 
My  father  produced  several  kinds  of  food,  ready  to  eat, 
without  any  cooking,  from  little  tin  cans  that  had  print 
ing  all  over  them.  He  attempted  to  introduce  us  to  a 
queer,  slippery  kind  of  fruit,  which  he  called  "banana," 
but  had  to  give  it  up  for  the  time  being.  After  the  meal, 
he  had  better  luck  with  a  curious  piece  of  furniture  on 
runners,  which  he  called  "rocking  chair."  There  were 
five  of  us  newcomers,  and  we  found  five  different  ways 
of  getting  into  the  American  vehicle  of  perpetual  mo 
tion,  and  as  many  ways  of  getting  out  of  it. 

In  our  flat  we  did  not  think  of  such  a  thing  as  storing 


146  THE  AMERICAN  MIRACLE 

the  coal  in  the  bathtub.  There  was  no  bathtub.  So  in 
the  evening  of  the  first  day  my  father  conducted  us  to 
the  public  baths.  As  we  moved  along  in  a  little  proces 
sion,  I  was  delighted  with  the  illumination  of  the  streets. 
So  many  lamps,  and  they  burned  until  morning,  my 
father  said,  and  so  people  did  not  need  to  carry  lanterns. 
In  America,  then,  everything  was  free,  as  we  had  heard 
in  Russia.  Light  was  free;  the  streets  were  as  bright  as 
a  synagogue  on  a  holy-day.  Music  was  free;  we  had 
been  serenaded,  to  our  gaping  delight,  by  a  brass  band 
of  many  pieces,  soon  after  our  installation  on  Union 
Place. 

Education  was  free.  That  subject  my  father  had  writ 
ten  about  repeatedly,  as  comprising  his  chief  hope  for 
us  children,  the  essence  of  American  opportunity,  the 
treasure  that  no  thief  could  touch,  not  even  misfortune 
or  poverty.  It  was  the  one  thing  that  he  was  able  to 
promise  us  when  he  sent  for  us,  surer,  safer  than  bread 
or  shelter.  On  our  second  day  I  was  thrilled  with  the 
realization  of  what  this  freedom  of  education  meant. 
A  little  girl  from  across  the  alley  came  and  offered  to 
conduct  us  to  school.  My  father  was  out,  but  we  five 
between  us  had  a  few  words  of  English  by  this  time. 
We  knew  the  word  school.  We  understood.  This  child, 
who  had  never  seen  us  till  yesterday,  who  could  not 
pronounce  our  names,  who  was  not  much  better  dressed 
than  we,  was  able  to  offer  us  the  freedom  of  the  schools 
of  Boston!  No  application  made,  no  questions  asked, 
no  examinations,  rulings,  exclusions;  no  machinations, 
no  fees.  The  doors  stood  open  for  every  one  of  us.  The 
smallest  child  could  show  us  the  way. 

This  incident  impressed  me  more  than  anything  I 


THE  AMERICAN  MIRACLE  147 

had  heard  in  advance  of  the  freedom  of  education  in 
America.  It  was  a  concrete  proof  —  almost  the  thing 
itself.  One  had  to  experience  it  to  understand  it. 

It  was  a  great  disappointment  to  be  told  by  my  father 
that  we  were  not  to  enter  upon  our  school  career  at  once. 
It  was  too  near  the  end  of  the  term,  he  said,  and  we  were 
to  move  to  Crescent  Beach  in  a  week  or  so.  We  had 
to  wait  until  the  schools  open  in  September.  What  a 
loss  of  precious  time  —  from  May  till  September! 

Not  that  the  time  was  really  lost.  Even  the  interval 
on  Union  Place  was  crowded  with  lessons  and  experi 
ences.  We  had  to  visit  the  stores  and  be  dressed  from 
head  to  foot  in  American  clothing;  we  had  to  conquer 
the  mysteries  of  the  iron  stove,  the  washboard,  and  the 
speaking-tube;  we  had  to  learn  to  trade  with  the  fruit- 
peddler  through  the  window,  and  not  to  be  afraid  of  the 
policeman;  and,  above  all,  wTe  had  to  learn  English. 

The  kind  people  who  assisted  us  in  these  important 
matters  form  a  group  by  themselves  in  the  gallery  of  my 
friends.  If  I  had  never  seen  them  from  those  early  days 
till  now,  I  should  still  have  remembered  them  with  grat 
itude.  When  I  enumerate  the  long  list  of  my  American 
teachers,  I  must  begin  with  those  wrho  came  to  us  on 
Union  Place  and  taught  us  our  first  steps.  To  my 
mother,  in  her  perplexity  over  the  cook-stove,  the  wo 
man  who  showed  her  how  to  make  the  fire  was  an  angel 
of  deliverance.  A  fairy  godmother  to  us  children  was 
she  who  led  us  to  a  wonderful  country  called  "up  town," 
where,  in  a  dazzlingly  beautiful  palace  called  a  "depart 
ment  store,"  we  exchanged  our  hateful  home-made  Eu 
ropean  costumes,  which  pointed  us  out  as  "greenhorns" 
to  the  children  on  the  street,  for  real  American  machine- 


148  THE  AMERICAN  MIRACLE 

made  garments,  and  issued  forth  glorified  in  each  others' 
eyes. 

With  our  despised  immigrant  clothing  we  shed  also 
our  impossible  Hebrew  names.  A  committee  of  our 
friends,  several  years  ahead  of  us  in  American  experi 
ence,  put  their  heads  together  and  concocted  American 
names  for  us  all.  Those  of  our  real  names  that  had  no 
pleasing  American  equivalents  they  ruthlessly  discarded, 
content  if  they  retained  the  initials.  My  mother,  possess 
ing  a  name  that  was  untranslatable,  was  punished  with 
the  undignified  nickname  of  Annie.  Fetchke,  Joseph, 
and  Edle  Dvereh  issued  as  Frieda,  Joseph,  and  Dora, 
respectively.  As  for  poor  me,  I  was  simply  cheated. 
My  Hebrew  name  being  Maryashe  in  full,  —  Mashke 
for  short,  —  Russianized  into  Marya  (Mar-ya) ,  my 
friends  said  it  would  hold  good  in  English  as  Mary; 
which  was  very  disappointing,  as  I  longed  to  possess  a 
really  strange-sounding  American  name  like  the  others. 

I  am  forgetting  the  consolation  I  had,  in  this  matter  of 
names,  from  the  use  of  my  surname,  which  I  have  had 
no  occasion  to  mention  until  now.  My  father,  I  found, 
was  Mr.  Antin  on  the  slightest  provocation,  and  not, 
as  in  Polotzk,  on  state  occasions  alone.  And  so  I  was 
Mary  Antin,  and  I  felt  very  important  to  answer  to  such 
a  dignified  title.  It  was  just  like  America  that  even 
plain  people  should  wear  their  surnames  on  week-days. 

As  a  family  we  were  so  diligent  under  instruction,  so 
adaptable,  and  so  clever  in  hiding  our  deficiencies,  that 
when  we  made  the  journey  to  Crescent  Beach,  in  the 
wake  of  our  small  wagon-load  of  household  goods,  my 
father  had  very  little  occasion  to  admonish  us  on  the 
way,  and  I  am  sure  he  was  not  ashamed  of  us.  So  much 


THE  AMERICAN  MIRACLE  149 

we  had  achieved  toward  our  Americanization  during  the 
two  weeks  that  had  passed  since  our  landing. 

In  Chelsea,  as  in  Boston,  we  made  our  stand  in  the 
wrong  end  of  the  town.  Arlington  Street  was  inhabited 
by  poor  Jews,  poor  Negroes,  and  a  sprinkling  of  poor 
Irish.  The  side  streets  leading  from  it  were  occupied  by 
more  poor  Jews  and  Negroes,  It  was  a  proper  locality 
for  a  man  without  capital  to  do  business.  My  father 
rented  a  tenement  with  a  store  in  the  basement ;  he  put 
in  a  few  barrels  of  flour  and  sugar,  a  few  boxes  of  crack 
ers,  a  few  gallons  of  kerosene,  an  assortment  of  soap  of 
the  " save-the-coupon "  brands;  in  the  cellar,  a  few  bar 
rels  of  potatoes,  and  a  pyramid  of  kindling  wood ;  in  the 
show-case,  an  alluring  display  of  penny  candy.  He  put 
out  his  sign,  with  a  gilt-lettered  warning,  "Strictly 
Cash,"  and  proceeded  to  give  credit  indiscriminately. 
That  was  the  regular  way  to  do  business  on  Arlington 
Street.  My  father,  in  his  three  years'  apprenticeship, 
had  learned  the  tricks  of  many  trades:  he  knew  when 
and  how  to  "bluff."  The  legend  "Strictly  Cash"  was  a 
protection  against  notoriously  irresponsible  customers; 
while  none  of  the  "good"  customers,  who  had  a  record 
for  paying  regularly  on  Saturday,  hesitated  to  enter  the 
store  with  empty  purses. 

If  my  father  knew  the  tricks  of  the  trade,  my  mother 
could  be  counted  on  to  throw  all  her  talent  and  tact  into 
the  business.  Of  course,  she  had  no  English  yet;  but 
as  she  could  perform  the  acts  of  weighing,  measuring, 
and  mental  computation  of  fractions  mechanically,  she 
was  able  to  give  her  whole  attention  to  the  dark  myster 
ies  of  the  language,  as  intercourse  with  her  customers 
gave  her  opportunity.  In  this  she  made  such  rapid 


150  THE  AMERICAN  MIRACLE 

progress  that  she  soon  lost  all  sense  of  disadvantage,  and 
conducted  herself  behind  the  counter  very  much  as  if 
she  were  back  in  her  old  store  in  Polotzk.  It  was  far 
more  cosy  than  Polotzk,  —  at  least,  so  it  seemed  to  me, 
-  for  behind  the  store  was  the  kitchen,  where  she  did 
her  cooking  and  washing,  in  the  intervals  of  slack  trade. 
Arlington  Street  customers  were  used  to  waiting  while 
the  soup  was  salted  or  a  loaf  rescued  from  the  oven. 
I  was  not  a  bit  too  large  for  my  little  chair  and  desk 
in  the  baby  class  at  school,  but  my  mind,  of  course,  was 
too  mature  by  six  or  seven  years  for  the  work.  So  as 
soon  as  I  could  understand  what  the  teacher  said  in  class, 
I  was  advanced  to  the  second  grade.  This  was  within  a 
week  after  Miss  Nixon  took  me  in  hand.  But  I  do  not 
mean  to  give  my  dear  teacher  all  the  credit  for  my  rapid 
progress,  or  even  half  the  credit.  On  behalf  of  my  race 
and  my  family,  I  shall  divide  it  with  her.  I  was  Jew 
enough  to  have  an  aptitude  for  language  in  general,  and 
to  bend  my  mind  earnestly  to  my  task;  I  was  Antin 
enough  to  read  each  lesson  with  my  heart,  which  gave 
me  an  inkling  of  what  was  coming  next,  and  so  carried 
me  along  by  leaps  and  bounds.  As  for  the  teacher,  she 
could  best  explain  what  theory  she  followed  in  teaching 
us  foreigners  to  read.  I  can  only  describe  the  method, 
which  was  so  simple  that  I  wish  holiness  could  be  taught 
in  the  same  way. 

There  were  about  half  a  dozen  of  us  beginners  in  Eng 
lish,  in  age  from  six  to  fifteen.  Miss  Nixon  made  a 
special  class  of  us,  and  aided  us  so  skillfully  and  earn 
estly  in  our  endeavors  to  "see-a-cat,"  and  "hear-a-dog," 
and  "look-at-the-hen,"  that  we  turned  over  page  after 
page  of  the  ravishing  history,  eager  to  find  out  how  the 


THE  AMERICAN  MIRACLE  151 

common  world  looked,  smelt,  and  tasted  in  the  strange 
speech.  The  teacher  knew  just  when  to  let  us  help  each 
other  out  with  a  word  in  our  own  tongue,  —  it  happened 
that  we  were  all  Jews,  —  and  so,  working  all  together, 
we  actually  covered  more  ground  in  a  lesson  than  the 
native  classes,  composed  entirely  of  little  tots. 

But  we  stuck  —  stuck  fast  —  at  the  definite  article; 
and  sometimes  the  lesson  resolved  itself  into  a  species 
of  lingual  gymnastics,  in  which  we  all  looked  as  if  we 
meant  to  bite  off  our  tongues.  Miss  Nixon  was  pretty, 
and  she  must  have  looked  well  with  her  white  teeth 
showing  in  the  act;  but  at  the  time  I  was  too  solemnly 
occupied  to  admire  her  looks.  I  did  take  great  pleasure 
in  her  smile  of  approval,  whenever  I  pronounced  well; 
and  her  patience  and  perseverance  are  becoming  to  her 
even  now,  after  fifteen  years.  It  is  not  her  fault  if  any 
of  us  give  a  buzzing  sound  to  the  dreadful  English  th. 

Whenever  the  teachers  did  anything  special  to  help 
me  over  my  private  difficulties,  my  gratitude  went  out 
to  them,  silently.  It  meant  so  much  to  me  that  they 
halted  the  lesson  to  give  me  a  lift,  that  I  needs  must  love 
them  for  it.  Dear  Miss  Carrol,  of  the  second  grade, 
would  be  amazed  to  hear  what  small  things  I  remember, 
all  because  I  was  so  impressed  at  the  time  with  her  read 
iness  and  sweetness  in  taking  notice  of  my  difficulties. 

Says  Miss  Carrol,  looking  straight  at  me,  "If  John 
nie  has  three  marbles,  and  Charlie  has  twice  as  many, 
how  many  marbles  has  Charlie?" 

I  raise  my  hand  for  permission  to  speak.  "Teacher,  I 
don't  know  vhat  is  tvice." 

Teacher  beckons  me  to  her,  and  whispers  in  my  ear 
the  meaning  of  the  strange  word,  and  I  am  able  to  write 


152  THE  AMERICAN  MIRACLE 

the  sum  correctly.  It's  all  in  the  day's  work  with  her; 
with  me,  it  is  a  special  act  of  kindness  and  efficiency. 

She  whom  I  found  in  the  next  grade  became  so  dear  a 
friend  that  I  can  hardly  name  her  with  the  rest.  Her 
approval  was  always  dear  to  me,  first  because  she  was 
Teacher,  and  afterwards,  as  long  as  she  lived,  because 
she  was  my  Miss  Dillingham.  Great  was  my  grief, 
therefore,  when,  shortly  after  my  admission  to  her  class, 
I  incurred  discipline,  for  the  first,  and  next  to  the  last, 
time  in  my  school  career. 

The  class  was  repeating  in  chorus  the  Lord's  Prayer, 
heads  bowed  on  desks.  I  was  doing  my  best  to  keep  up 
by  the  sound;  my  mind  could  not  go  beyond  the  word 
"hallowed,"  for  which  I  had  not  found  the  meaning. 
In  the  middle  of  the  prayer  the  Jewish  boy  across  the 
aisle  trod  on  my  foot  to  get  my  attention.  "You  must 
not  say  that,"  he  admonished  in  a  solemn  whisper. 
"It's  Christian."  I  whispered  back  that  it  was  n't. 
and  went  on,  to  the  "Amen."  I  did  not  know  but  what 
he  was  right,  but  the  name  of  Christ  was  not  in  the 
prayer,  and  I  was  bound  to  do  everything  that  the  class 
did.  If  I  had  any  Jewish  scruples,  they  were  lagging 
away  behind  my  interest  in  school  affairs. 

But  all  Miss  Dillingham  saw  was  that  two  of  her 
pupils  whispered  during  morning  prayer,  and  she  must 
discipline  them.  So  I  was  degraded  from  the  honor  row 
to  the  lowest  row,  and  it  was  many  a  day  before  I 
forgave  that  young  missionary;  it  was  not  enough  for 
my  vengeance  that  he  suffered  punishment  with  me. 
Teacher,  of  course,  heard  us  both  defend  ourselves,  but 
there  was  a  time  and  a  place  for  religious  arguments, 
and  she  meant  to  help  us  remember  that  point. 


HOW  I   KILLED  A  BEAR 

BY  CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER 

So  many  conflicting  accounts  have  appeared  about 
my  casual  encounter  with  an  Adirondack  bear  last 
summer,  that  in  justice  to  the  public,  to  myself,  and  to 
the  bear,  it  is  necessary  to  make  a  plain  statement  of  the 
facts.  Besides,  it  is  so  seldom  I  have  occasion  to  kill  a 
bear,  that  the  celebration  of  the  exploit  may  be  excused. 

The  encounter  was  unpremeditated  on  both  sides. 
I  was  not  hunting  for  a  bear,  and  I  have  no  reason  to 
suppose  that  a  bear  was  looking  for  me.  The  fact  is  that 
we  were  both  out  blackberrying,  and  met  by  chance,  the 
usual  way.  There  is  among  the  Adirondack  visitors  al 
ways  a  great  deal  of  conversation  about  bears,  a  general 
expression  of  the  wish  to  see  one  in  the  woods  and  much 
speculation  as  to  how  a  person  would  act  if  he  or  she 
chanced  to  meet  one.  But  bears  are  scarce  and  timid, 
and  appear  only  to  a  favored  few. 

It  was  a  warm  day  in  August,  just  the  sort  of  day 
when  an  adventure  of  any  kind  seemed  impossible. 
But  it  occurred  to  the  housekeepers  at  our  cottage  — 
there  were  four  of  them  —  to  send  me  to  the  clearing  on 
the  mountain  back  of  the  house  to  pick  blackberries. 
It  was  rather  a  series  of  small  clearings,  running  up 
into  the  forest,  much  overgrown  with  bushes  and  briars, 
and  not  unromantic.  Cows  pastured  there,  penetrating 
through  the  leafy  passages  from  one  opening  to  another, 


154  HOW  I  KILLED  A  BEAR 

and  browsing  among  the  bushes.  I  was  kindly  furnished 
with  a  six-quart  pail,  and  told  not  to  be  gone  long. 

Not  from  any  predatory  instinct,  but  to  save  appear 
ances,  I  took  a  gun.  It  adds  to  the  manly  aspect  of  a 
person  with  a  tin  pail  if  he  also  carries  a  gun.  It  was 
possible  I  might  start  up  a  partridge;  though  how  I  was 
to  hit  him  if  he  started  up  instead  of  standing  still  puz 
zled  me.  Many  people  use  a  shot-gun  for  partridges.  I 
prefer  the  rifle;  it  makes  a  clean  job  of  death,  and  does 
not  prematurely  stuff  the  bird  with  globules  of  lead. 
The  rifle  was  a  Sharp's,  carrying  a  ball  cartridge,  ten  to 
the  pound;  an  excellent  weapon,  belonging  to  a  friend 
of  mine  who  had  intended  for  a  good  many  years  back 
to  kill  a  deer  with  it.  He  could  hit  a  tree  with  it,  if  the 
wind  did  not  blow  and  the  atmosphere  was  just  right 
and  the  tree  was  not  too  far  off,  nearly  every  time;  of 
course  the  tree  must  have  some  size.  Needless  to  say 
that  I  was  at  that  time  no  sportsman.  Years  ago  I 
killed  a  robin  under  the  most  humiliating  circumstances. 
The  bird  was  in  a  low  cherry  tree;  I  loaded  a  big  shot 
gun  pretty  full,  crept  up  under  the  tree,  rested  the  gun 
on  the  fence,  with  the  muzzle  more  than  ten  feet  from 
the  bird,  shut  both  eyes,  and  pulled  the  trigger.  When  I 
got  up  to  see  what  had  happened,  the  robin  was  scat 
tered  about  under  the  tree  in  more  than  a  thousand 
pieces,  no  one  of  which  was  big  enough  to  enable  a 
naturalist  to  decide  from  it  to  what  species  it  belonged. 
This  disgusted  me  with  the  life  of  a  sportsman.  I  men 
tion  the  incident  to  show  that,  although  I  went  black- 
berrying  armed,  there  was  not  much  inequality  between 
me  and  the  bear. 

In  this  blackberry  patch  bears  had  been  seen.    The 


HOW  I  KILLED  A  BEAR  155 

summer  before,  our  colored  cook,  accompanied  by  a 
little  girl  of  the  vicinage,  was  picking  berries  there  one 
day,  when  a  bear  came  out  of  the  woods  and  walked 
toward  them.  The  girl  took  to  her  heels  and  escaped. 
Aunt  Chloe  was  paralyzed  with  terror.  Instead  of  at 
tempting  to  run,  she  sat  down  on  the  ground  where  she 
was  standing  and  began  to  weep  and  scream,  giving  her 
self  up  for  lost.  The  bear  was  bewildered  by  this  con 
duct.  He  approached  and  looked  at  her;  he  walked 
around  and  surveyed  her.  Probably  he  had  never  seen 
a  colored  person  before,  and  did  not  know  whether  she 
would  agree  with  him.  At  any  rate,  after  watching  her  a 
few  moments  he  turned  about  and  went  into  the  forest. 
This  is  an  authentic  instance  of  the  delicate  considera 
tion  of  a  bear,  and  is  much  more  remarkable  than  the 
forbearance  toward  the  African  slave  of  the  well-known 
lion,  because  the  bear  had  no  thorn  in  his  foot. 

When  I  had  climbed  the  hill,  I  set  up  my  rifle  against 
a  tree  and  began  picking  berries,  lured  on  from  bush  to 
bush  by  the  black  gleam  of  fruit  that  always  promises 
more  in  the  distance  than  it  realizes  when  you  reach  it; 
penetrating  farther  and  farther,  through  leaf-shaded 
cow-paths  flecked  with  sunlight,  into  clearing  after  clear 
ing.  I  could  hear  on  all  sides  the  tinkle  of  bells,  the 
cracking  of  sticks,  arid  the  stamping  of  cattle  that  were 
taking  refuge  in  the  thicket  from  the  flies.  Occasionally, 
as  I  broke  through  a  covert,  I  encountered  a  meek  cow, 
who  stared  at  me  stupidly  for  a  second  and  then  sham 
bled  off  into  the  brush.  I  became  accustomed  to  this 
dumb  society,  and  picked  on  in  silence,  attributing  all 
the  wood-noises  to  the  cattle,  thinking  nothing  of  any 
real  bear.  In  point  of  fact,  however,  I  was  thinking  all 


156  HOW  I  KILLED  A  BEAR 

the  time  of  a  nice  romantic  bear,  and,  as  I  picked,  was 
composing  a  story  about  a  generous  she-bear  who  had 
lost  her  cub,  and  who  seized  a  small  girl  in  this  very 
wood,  carried  her  tenderly  off  to  her  cave,  and  brought 
her  up  on  bear's  milk  and  honey.  When  the  girl  got  big 
enough  to  run  away,  moved  by  her  inherited  instincts, 
she  escaped  and  came  into  the  valley  to  her  father's 
house  (this  part  of  the  story  was  to  be  worked  out,  so 
that  the  child  would  know  her  father  by  some  family  re 
semblance,  and  have  some  language  in  which  to  address 
him),  and  told  him  where  the  bear  lived.  The  father 
took  his  gun,  and,  guided  by  the  unfeeling  daughter, 
went  into  the  woods  and  shot  the  bear,  who  never  made 
any  resistance,  and  only,  when  dying,  turned  reproach 
ful  eyes  upon  her  murderer.  The  moral  of  the  tale  was  to 
be  kindness  to  animals. 

I  was  in  the  midst  of  this  tale,  when  I  happened  to 
look  some  rods  away  to  the  other  edge  of  the  clearing, 
and  there  was  a  bear !  He  was  standing  on  his  hind  legs 
and  doing  just  what  I  was  doing  —  picking  blackberries. 
With  one  paw  he  bent  down  the  bush,  while  with  the 
other  he  clawed  the  berries  into  his  mouth,  green  ones 
and  all.  To  say  that  I  was  astonished  is  inside  the  mark. 
I  suddenly  discovered  that  I  did  n't  want  to  see  a  bear, 
after  all.  At  about  the  same  moment  the  bear  saw  me, 
stopped  eating  berries,  and  regarded  me  with  a  glad  sur 
prise.  It  is  all  very  well  to  imagine  what  you  would  do 
under  such  circumstances.  Probably  you  would  n't  do 
it;  I  did  n't.  The  bear  dropped  down  on  his  fore  feet, 
and  came  slowly  towards  me.  Climbing  a  tree  was  of  no 
use  with  so  good  a  climber  in  the  rear;  if  I  started  to  run, 
I  had  no  doubt  the  bear  would  give  chase;  and  although 


HOW  I  KILLED  A  BEAR  157 

a  bear  cannot  run  downhill  as  fast  as  he  can  run  uphill, 
yet  I  felt  that  he  could  get  over  this  rough,  brush-tangled 
ground  faster  than  I  could. 


The  bear  was  approaching.  It  suddenly  occurred  to 
me  how  I  could  divert  his  mind  until  I  could  fall  back 
upon  my  military  base.  My  pail  was  nearly  full  of  ex 
cellent  berries  —  much  better  than  the  bear  could  pick 
himself.  I  put  the  pail  on  the  ground  and  slowly  backed 
away  from  it,  keeping  my  eye,  as  beast-tamers  do,  on  the 
bear.  The  ruse  succeeded. 

The  bear  came  up  to  the  berries  and  stopped;  not  ac 
customed  to  eat  out  of  a  pail,  he  tipped  it  over  and  nosed 
about  in  the  fruit,  "gorming"  (if  there  is  such  a  word)  it 
down,  mixed  with  leaves  and  dirt,  like  a  pig.  The  bear 
is  a  worse  feeder  than  the  pig.  Whenever  he  disturbs  a 
maple-sugar  camp  in  the  spring,  he  always  upsets  the 
bucket  of  syrup  and  tramples  round  in  the  sticky  sweets, 
wasting  more  than  he  eats.  The  bear's  manners  are 
thoroughly  disagreeable. 

As  soon  as  my  enemy's  head  was  down,  I  started  and 
ran.  Somewhat  out  of  breath  and  shaky,  I  reached  my 


158  HOW  I  KILLED  A  BEAR 

faithful  rifle.  It  was  not  a  moment  too  soon.  I  heard  the 
bear  crushing  through  the  brush  after  me.  Enraged  at 
my  duplicity,  he  was  now  coming  on  with  blood  in  his 
eye.  I  felt  that  the  time  of  one  of  us  was  probably  short. 
The  rapidity  of  thought  at  such  moments  of  peril  is  well 
known.  I  thought  an  octavo  volume,  had  it  illustrated 
and  published,  sold  fifty  thousand  copies,  and  went  to 
Europe  on  the  proceeds,  while  that  bear  was  loping 
across  the  clearing.  As  I  was  cocking  the  gun,  I  made 
a  hasty  and  unsatisfactory  review  of  my  whole  life. 
I  noted  that  even  in  such  a  compulsory  review  it  is 
almost  impossible  to  think  of  any  good  thing  you  have 
done.  The  sins  come  out  uncommonly  strong.  I  recol 
lected  a  newspaper  subscription  I  had  delayed  paying, 
years  and  years  ago,  until  both  editor  and  newspaper 
were  dead;  and  which  now  never  could  be  paid  to  all 
eternity. 

The  bear  was  coming  on. 

I  tried  to  remember  what  I  had  read  about  encounters 
with  bears.  I  could  n't  recall  an  instance  in  which  a  man 
had  run  away  from  a  bear  in  the  woods  and  escaped,  al 
though  I  recalled  plenty  where  the  bear  had  run  from 
the  man  and  got  off.  I  tried  to  think  what  is  the  best 
way  to  kill  a  bear  with  a  gun,  when  you  are  not  near 
enough  to  club  him  with  the  stock.  My  first  thought  was 
to  fire  at  his  head,  to  plant  the  ball  between  his  eyes; 
but  this  is  a  dangerous  experiment.  The  bear's  brain  is 
very  small,  and  unless  you  hit  that,  the  bear  does  not 
mind  a  bullet  in  his  head,  —  that  is,  not  at  the  time.  I 
remembered  that  the  instant  death  of  the  bear  would 
follow  a  bullet  planted  just  back  of  his  fore  leg  and  sent 
into  his  heart.  This  spot  is  also  difficult  to  reach  unless 


HOW  I  KILLED  A  BEAR  159 

the  bear  stands  off-side  toward  you,  like  a  target.  I  fin 
ally  determined  to  fire  at  him  generally. 

The  bear  was  coming  on. 

The  contest  seemed  to  me  very  different  from  any 
thing  at  Creedmoor.  I  had  carefully  read  the  reports  of 
the  shooting  there,  but  it  was  not  easy  to  apply  the  ex 
perience  I  had  thus  acquired.  I  hesitated  whether  I  had 
better  fire  lying  on  my  stomach,  or  lying  on  my  back 
and  resting  the  gun  on  my  toes.  But  in  neither  position, 
I  reflected,  could  I  see  the  bear  until  he  was  upon  me. 
The  range  was  too  short,  and  the  bear  wouldn't  wait 
for  me  to  examine  the  thermometer  and  note  the  direc 
tion  of  the  wind.  Trial  of  the  Creedmoor  method,  there 
fore,  had  to  be  abandoned;  and  I  bitterly  regretted  that 
I  had  not  read  more  accounts  of  off-hand  shooting. 

For  the  bear  was  coming  on. 

I  tried  to  fix  my  last  thoughts  upon  my  family.  As 
my  family  is  small,  this  was  not  difficult.  Dread  of  dis 
pleasing  my  wife  or  hurting  her  feelings  was  uppermost 
in  my  mind.  What  would  be  her  anxiety  as  hour  after 
hour  passed  on  and  I  did  not  return !  What  would  the 
rest  of  the  household  think  as  the  afternoon  passed  and 
no  blackberries  came!  What  would  be  her  mortifica 
tion  when  the  news  was  brought  that  her  husband  had 
been  eaten  up  by  a  bear?  I  cannot  imagine  anything 
more  ignominious  than  to  have  a  husband  eaten  by  a 
bear!  And  this  was  not  my  only  anxiety.  The  mind 
at  such  times  is  not  under  control.  With  the  gravest 
fears  the  most  whimsical  ideas  will  occur.  I  looked 
beyond  the  mourning  friends  and  thought  what  kind 
of  an  epitaph  they  would  be  compelled  to  put  upon  the 
stone. 


160  HOW  I  KILLED  A  BEAR 

Something  like  this :  - 


HERE    LIE   THE   REMAINS 
OF 


EATEN   BY    A    BEAR 

August  20,  1877 

It  is  a  very  unheroic  and  even  disagreeable  epitaph. 
That  "eaten  by  a  bear"  is  intolerable.  It  is  grotesque. 
And  then  I  thought  what  an  inadequate  language  the 
English  is  for  compact  expression.  It  would  not  answer 
to  put  upon  the  stone  simply  "eaten,"  for  that  is  in 
definite  and  requires  explanation;  it  might  mean  eaten 
by  a  cannibal.  This  difficulty  could  not  occur  in  the 
German,  where  essen  signifies  the  act  of  feeding  by  a 
man  and  fressen  by  a  beast.  How  simple  the  thing 
would  be  in  German :  — 


HIER  LIEGT 
HOCHWOHLGEBOREN 
HERR  — 

GEFRESSEN 

August  20,  1877 


That  explains  itself.  The  well-born  one  was  eaten  by 
a  beast,  and  presumably  by  a  bear,  which  animal  has  a 
bad  reputation  since  the  days  of  Elisha. 

The  bear  was  coming  on.  He  had  in  fact  come  on.  I 
judged  that  he  could  see  the  whites  of  my  eyes.  All  my 
subsequent  reflections  were  confused.  I  raised  the  gun, 
covered  the  bear's  breast  with  the  sight,  and  let  drive. 
Then,  I  turned  and  ran  like  a  deer.  I  did  not  hear  the 
bear  pursuing.  I  looked  back.  The  bear  had  stopped. 
He  was  lying  down.  I  then  remembered  that  the  best 
thing  to  do  after  having  fired  your  gun  is  to  reload  it.  I 
slipped  in  a  charge,  keeping  my  eyes  on  the  bear.  He 
never  stirred.  I  walked  back  suspiciously.  There  was 


HOW  I  KILLED  A  BEAR  161 

a  quiver  in  the  hind  legs,  but  no  other  motion.  Still,  he 
might  be  shamming.  Bears  often  sham.  To  make  sure, 
I  approached  and  put  a  ball  into  his  head.  He  did  n't 
mind  it  now;  he  minded  nothing.  Death  had  come  to 
him  with  a  merciful  suddenness.  He  was  calm  in  death. 
In  order  that  he  might  remain  so,  I  blew  his  brains  out, 
and  then  started  for  home.  I  had  killed  a  bear ! 

Notwithstanding  my  excitement,  I  managed  to  saun 
ter  into  the  house  with  an  unconcerned  air.  There  was 
a  chorus  of  voices :  — 

"Where  are  your  blackberries?" 

"Where's  your  pail?  " 

"I  left  the  pail." 

"Left  the  pail!  What  for?" 

"A  bear  wanted  it." 

"Oh,  nonsense!" 

"Well,  the  last  I  saw  of  it,  a  bear  had  it." 

"Oh,  come!  You  did  n't  really  see  a  bear?" 

"Yes,  but  I  did  really  see  a  real  bear." 

"Did  he  run?" 

"Yes;  he  ran  after  me." 

"I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it.  What  did  you  do?  " 

"Oh,  nothing  particular,  except  kill  the  bear." 

Cries  of  "Gammon!"  "Don't  believe  it!"  "Where's 
the  bear?" 

"If  you  want  to  see  the  bear,  you  must  go  up  into  the 
woods.  I  could  n't  bring  him  down  alone." 

Having  satisfied  the  household  that  something  extra 
ordinary  had  occurred,  and  excited  the  posthumous  fear 
of  some  of  them  for  my  own  safety,  I  went  down  into 
the  valley  to  get  help.  The  great  bear-hunter  who  keeps 
one  of  the  summer  boarding-houses  received  my  story 


162  HOW  I  KILLED  A  BEAR 

with  a  smile  of  incredulity,  and  the  incredulity  spread 
to  the  other  inhabitants  and  to  the  boarders  as  soon  as 
the  story  was  known.  However,  as  I  insisted  in  all  so 
berness,  and  offered  to  lead  them  to  the  bear,  a  party  of 
forty  or  fifty  people  at  last  started  off  with  me  to  bring 
the  bear  in.  Nobody  believed  there  was  any  bear  in  the 
case,  but  everybody  who  could  get  a  gun  carried  one,  and 
we  went  into  the  woods  armed  with  guns,  pistols,  pitch 
forks,  and  sticks,  against  all  contingencies  or  surprises 
—  a  crowd  made  up  mostly  of  scoffers  and  jeerers. 

But  when  I  led  the  way  to  the  fatal  spot,  and  pointed 
out  the  bear,  lying  peacefully  wrapped  in  his  own  skin, 
something  like  terror  seized  the  boarders,  and  genuine 
excitement  the  natives.  It  was  a  no-mistake  bear,  by 
George;  and  the  hero  of  the  fight  —  well,  I  will  not  in 
sist  upon  that.  But  what  a  procession  that  was,  carry 
ing  the  bear  home,  and  what  a  congregation  was  speed 
ily  gathered  in  the  valley  to  see  the  bear!  Our  best 
preacher  there  never  drew  anything  like  it  on  Sunday. 

And  I  must  say  that  my  particular  friends,  who  were 
sportsmen,  behaved  very  well,  on  the  whole.  They  did  n't 
deny  that  it  was  a  bear,  although  they  said  it  was 
small  for  a  bear.  Mr.  Deane,  who  is  equally  good  with  a 
rifle  and  a  rod,  admitted  that  it  was  a  very  fair  shot. 
He  is  probably  the  best  salmon-fisher  in  the  United 
States,  and  he  is  an  equally  good  hunter.  I  suppose 
there  is  no  person  in  America  who  is  more  desirous  to 
kill  a  moose  than  he.  But  he  needlessly  remarked,  after 
he  had  examined  the  wound  in  the  bear,  that  he  had 
seen  that  kind  of  a  shot  made  by  a  cow's  horn.  This  sort 
of  talk  affected  me  not.  When  I  went  to  sleep  that  night 
my  last  delicious  thought  was,  "I  've  killed  a  bear." 


HOW  GLOOSKAP  BROUGHT  THE  SUMMER 

(Algonquin) 


BY  FRANCES  L.   MACE 


OF  the  old  days,  of  the  dawn  days, 

Still  the  wonder-tale  is  told 
In  the  shadow  of  Katahdin, 

Where  the  master  dwelt  of  old, 
The  great  Glooskap,  the  Algonquin, 

Chief  of  warriors  true  and  bold. 

Long  had  Winter,  strong  magician, 

Bound  in  icy  chains  the  land; 
Though  the  wise  men  prayed  and  fasted, 

Yet  he  lifted  not  his  hand, 
But  he  said,  "Lead  forth  a  warrior 

Who  my  magic  can  withstand ! 

"Let  him  find  my  secret  wigwam, 

Face  to  face  and  without  fear 
Feel  the  power  of  my  enchantment. 

If  he  bear  the  burden  drear, 
I  am  vanquished,  and  another 

Shall  be  found  to  rule  the  year." 

Dire  the  trouble  of  the  chieftains : 
Who  that  midnight  path  could  trace? 

Then  spake  Glooskap:  "Thrice  at  daybreak 
In  my  dreams  a  shining  face 


164      HOW   GLOOSKAP   BROUGHT   SUMMER 

Smiled  and  called  me.     I  will  follow, 
Even  to  Winter's  hiding-place." 

In  his  frozen  lodge  sat  Winter, 
Fierce  and  famine-eyed  and  old, 

Giant  of  forgotten  ages, 

Scarred  with  battles  manifold; 

On  his  cruel  deeds  he  pondered, 
In  the  darkness  and  the  cold. 

Suddenly  the  great  white  bearskin 

Was  uplifted  from  his  door, 
And  one  entered,  —  rushing  by  him 

Entered  too  the  storm's  wild  roar,  — 
And  the  heart  of  Winter  trembled 

With  a  dread  unknown  before. 

Strong  and  beautiful  the  stranger 
Stood  within  the  darkened  tent; 

The  faint  firelight  to  his  figure 
Shadowy  grace  and  stature  lent, 

And  his  glances  free  and  fearless 
On  the  giant's  face  were  bent. 

Strangely  stirred  the  heart  of  Winter, 

Heart  of  ice  within  his  breast, 
But  he  murmured,  guileful  ever, 

"Sit  within  the  lodge  and  rest. 
Long  they  journey,  —  in  the  morning 

Shall  thy  purpose  be  confessed." 

Then  the  terrible  frost-spirits, 
Hastening  to  their  monarch's  aid, 


HOW    GLOOSKAP   BROUGHT   SUMMER       165 

Of  the  gleaming  white  aurora 

Phantom  fire  of  welcome  made, 
And  the  pipe  of  cloud  and  ashes 

In  the  stranger's  hand  was  laid. 

And  his  heavy  eyes  were  lifted 

With  a  fixed,  unconscious  gaze, 
While  the  white  lips  of  old  Winter 

Muttered  of  the  ancient  days  — 
With  wind- voices  and  storm- voices 

Chanted  wild  and  awful  lays. 

Listening,  dreaming,  with  the  magic 

Of  the  place  around  him  cast, 
Soon  in  chains  of  icy  numbness 

All  his  senses  were  made  fast, 
And  the  hope  of  the  Algonquins 

Bound  and  helpless  lay  at  last. 

Days  and  months  he  slept,  yet  often 

In  his  slumber  stirred  with  pain; 
Lo !  the  shining  face  still  gleaming 

Far  o'er  midnight's  frozen  plain! 
Then  with  fierce  and  breathless  struggle 

Burst  he  from  the  demon  chain. 

Up  he  rose,  to  height  majestic, 

Taller,  fairer,  than  before. 
As  he  rent  in  sudden  fury 

The  white  bearskin  from  the  door, 
A  long  shaft  of  yellow  sunshine 

Flashed  upon  the  icy  floor! 


166      HOW    GLOOSKAP   BROUGHT   SUMMER 

"  I  have  tried  thy  power,  O  giant, 
To  thy  dark  words  listened  well; 

Now  the  vision  of  the  daybreak 
Calls  me  with  a  mightier  spell. 

Soon  it  will  be  thine  to  listen, 
Mine  the  wizard  tale  to  tell." 

II 

Oh,  fast  and  far  sped  Glooskap, 

With  shoes  of  magic  shod ! 
Past  icy  crag  and  mountain 

By  wonder-paths  he  trod, 
Until  his  feet  sank  lightly 
Upon  a  violet  sod, 

And  fairyland  before  him 

Its  gates  wide  open  threw, 
While  myriad  silver  bugles 

From  waving  treetops  blew; 
For  all  the  elfin  singers 

At  once  the  master  knew: 

And  in  their  midst  a  being 
All  beauty,  smiles,  and  light, 

The  fair  dream-face  that  led  him 
Along  the  waste  of  night. 

Like  morning  robed  in  roses 
She  beamed  upon  his  sight. 

But  for  no  soft  entreaty 

The  eager  master  stayed. 
"The  dark  world  waits  thy  coming," 

He  uttered.     ''Radiant  maid, 
Take  now  thy  earthly  kingdom : 

Too  long  thou  hast  delayed!" 


HOW    GLOOSKAP   BROUGHT   SUMMER      167 

He  caught  her  to  his  bosom, 

And  fast  again  he  sped, 
But  craftily  behind  him 

He  tossed  a  magic  thread, 
And  all  the  fairy  kingdom 

In  captive  train  was  led. 

The  birds  flew  close  above  them, 

And  filled  the  air  with  song; 
The  golden  armored  sunbeams, 

Their  escort,  marched  along, 
And  leaf,  and  bud,  and  blossom, 

And  rivulet,  swelled  the  throng. 

Upon  a  cliff  gigantic 

By  ocean's  stormy  shore, 
High  perched  the  great  wind-eagle, 

And  urged  the  tempest's  roar. 
His  wings  drooped  as  they  passed  him, 

And  ocean  raged  no  more. 

And  over  old  Katahdin, 

Where  thunders  have  their  home 

One  footprint  of  sweet  Summer 
Let  loose  the  spirits  dumb. 

The  lightnings  gleamed,  the  thunders 
Spake  deep,  "-The  hour  is  come!" 

Into  the  frozen  wigwam 

There  fell  a  flood  of  light: 
In  stepped  the  great  Algonquin, 

With  visage  bold  and  bright, 
And  with  him  royal  Summer, 

All  dazzling  to  the  sight. 


168      HOW   GLOOSKAP   BROUGHT   SUMMER 

Then,  smiling,  the  enchantress, 

With  singing  low  and  sweet, 
Let  fall  the  pearly  Mayflower 

Before  the  giant's  feet. 
Alas !  in  that  one  moment 

His  conquest  was  complete. 

With  eyes  that  swam  and  melted, 

With  heart  that  throbbed  and  burned, 

A  gaze  of  hopeless  worship 
Upon  her  face  he  turned. 

Though  slain  by  those  soft  glances, 
For  every  look  he  yearned. 

The  wigwam  sank  about  him, 
The  blue  sky  blazed  and  shone; 

The  weeping  frost-elves,  fleeing, 
Stayed  not  to  hear  his  moan: 
"I  die  for  thee,  O  Summer! 
The  world  is  thine  alone." 

Oh,  in  her  hour  of  triumph, 

Had  Summer  been  less  sweet, 
Nor  viewed  with  sudden  pity 

The  tyrant  at  her  feet, 
Her  reign  had  been  eternal, 

Our  joy  had  been  complete. 

But  on  the  humbled  monarch 
Dear  Summer  looked  and  sighed; 

Some  tears  let  fall  —  the  dewdrops 
Were  sprinkled  far  and  wide. 

She  smiled  again  —  a  rainbow 
The  hilltops  glorified ! 


HOW    GLOOSKAP   BROUGHT   SUMMER      169 

"Farewell!"  cried  laughing  Glooskap, 

"My  warriors  call  for  me! 
Dream  deep,  O  fallen  giant, 

Till  love  shall  set  thee  free ! 
Thy  fairy  bride  forever 

Will  share  the  throne  with  thee!"  • 


GLOOSKAP 
(From  an  old  drawing) 


THE   BLUE-JAY 

BY  OLIVE  THORNE  MILLER 

THE  blue- jay  came  out  of  the  egg  with  his  mind  made 
up.  He  always  knew  exactly  what  he  wanted,  and  never 
doubted  that  he  knew  how  to  get  it.  I  wrote  of  this  bird 
some  time  ago,  but  he  was  then  a  comparatively  new  ac 
quaintance.  He  lived  with  us  many  months  after  that, 
and  became  much  more  familiar;  for  besides  being  slow 
to  feel  thoroughly  at  home,  he  was  very  young,  and  he 
grew  in  wisdom  with  age.  So  I  have  more  to  say  of  him. 

Human  society  was  necessary  to  the  jay;  he  cared  for 
the  other  birds  of  the  room  only  as  objects  on  which  to 
play  tricks  for  his  own  amusement.  He  was  peculiar, 
too,  in  never  having  more  than  one  friend  at  a  time,  and 
was  very  decided  in  his  opinions  of  people,  having  a  dis 
tinctly  different  reception  for  each  one  of  the  household, 
as  well  as  for  strangers.  His  mistress  was  always  his 
prime  favorite;  and  although,  during  my  absence  from 
home,  he  adopted  someone  temporarily  in  my  place,  he 
was  never  so  affectionate  to  that  one  as  to  me,  and  the 
instant  I  returned  resumed  his  old  relations  to  each  of  us. 

To  his  best  beloved  this  bird  never  squawked  or 
whistled;  on  the  contrary,  he  talked  in  low,  sweet  tones, 
hardly  more  than  a  murmur,  slightly  lifting  and  quiver 
ing  his  wings,  sidling  as  near  as  he  could  get,  and  if  I  put 
my  face  down  to  him,  touching  my  cheek  or  lips  gently 
with  his  beak,  in  little  taps,  like  kisses.  Anyone  else  in 


THE   BLUE-JAY  171 

that  position  would  receive  a  violent  peck.  Sometimes, 
when  I  was  busy,  and  therefore  silent  a  long  time,  and 
the  jay  was  in  his  cage,  where  I  was  obliged  to  put  him 
in  order  to  work  at  all,  he  stood  perfectly  quiet  and  mo 
tionless  an  hour  at  a  time;  moving  only  when  he  was 
hungry,  and  apparently  watching  me  every  instant  —  a 
performance  very  uncommon  in  a  bird,  who  usually  has 
some  interests  of  his  own,  however  fond  he  may  be  of  a 
person.  The  moment  I  spoke  to  him,  his  whole  manner 
changed.  He  came  at  once  as  near  as  he  could,  about 
four  feet  from  me,  and  began  to  talk,  holding  his  tail  on 
one  side,  and  both  wings  spread  to  their  fullest  extent 
and  parallel  with  his  back.  In  this  attitude  he  hopped 
up  and  down  his  three  perches,  always  as  near  my  side  as 
possible,  and  evidently  in  great  excitement.  If,  during 
this  exhibition,  anyone  came  in,  his  wings  instantly 
dropped,  though  he  did  not  stop  talking  to  me.  This  ac 
tion  of  the  wings  showed  extreme  affection,  and  must  not 
be  profaned  by  common  eyes.  When  I  came  close  and 
replied  to  him,  his  agitation  was  almost  painful  to  see  — 
such  loving  tones,  such  gentle  kisses,  such  struggles  to 
express  himself.  Not  only  did  he  insist  on  sharing  his 
dainties  with  me,  offering  me  mocking-bird  food  or 
bread  and  milk  in  the  most  loving  way,  but  he  wished  to 
share  mine;  ice-cream  he  delighted  in,  cake  he  was  as 
fond  of  as  any  child,  and  candy  he  always  begged  for, 
though,  instead  of  eating  it,  he  hid  it  somewhere  about 
the  room  —  under  my  pillow,  or  between  the  leaves  of  a 
book,  all  sticky  as  it  was  from  his  mouth 

Second  in  the  blue- jay's  affections  was  a  lady  to 
whom  at  first  he  took  a  great  dislike.  She  tried  her  best 
to  win  him,  talking  to  him,  treating  him  to  various 


172  THE  BLUE-JAY 

tidbits,  and  offering  him  the  hospitality  of  her  room, 
—  separated  from  the  bird-room  by  a  passage,  —  and, 
above  all,  dancing  with  him.  These  attentions  in  time 
secured  her  a  warm  place  in  his  regard,  though  his  treat 
ment  of  her  was  very  different  from  that  reserved  for 
me.  He  was  always  gentle  with  me,  while  in  her  society 
he  exhibited  all  his  noisy  accomplishments  —  squawked, 
whistled,  and  screamed,  stamped  his  feet,  and  jounced 
(the  only  word  to  describe  a  certain  raising  and  violent 
dropping  of  the  body  without  lifting  the  feet) .  He  ran 
after  her  when  she  left  the  room;  he  pecked  her  hand,  and 
flew  up  at  her  face.  Gradually,  as  he  grew  to  like  her  better, 
the  more  violent  demonstrations  ceased;  but  he  was 
always  boisterous  with  her,  generally  expected  a  half- 
fight,  half -frolic,  and  I  must  say  never  failed  to  enjoy  it 
greatly. 

The  dance  spoken  of  was  droll.  His  chosen  place  for 
this  indulgence  was  the  back  of  a  tall  chair.  His  friend 
stood  before  this,  whistled,  bowed,  and  moved  her  head 
up  and  down  as  if  dancing;  and  he  on  his  perch  did  the 
same,  jumping  up  and  down  in  a  similar  way,  answering 
her  whistle  for  whistle,  moving  his  feet,  sidling  from  one 
side  to  the  other,  curtsying,  lowering  the  body  and  flat 
tening  the  head  feathers,  then  rising,  stamping  his  feet, 
and  drooping  his  wings.  This  he  kept  up  as  long  as  she 
played  second  to  him. 

When  this  playfellow  went  away,  the  jay  missed  his 
dances  and  frolics.  He  flew  into  her  empty  room,  perched 
on  the  back  of  the  rocking-chair,  where  he  had  been 
wont  to  stand  and  pull  her  hair,  and  began  a  peculiar 
cry.  Again  and  again  he  repeated  it,  louder  and  louder 
each  time,  till  it  ended  in  a  squawk,  impatient  and 


THE  BLUE-JAY  173 

angry,  as  much  as  to  say,  "Why  don't  you  answer?" 
After  a  while  he  began  to  whistle  the  notes  she  used  to 
imitate;  finding  that  this  brought  no  response,  he  re 
turned  to  the  cry;  and  when  at  last  he  had  exhausted 
all  his  resources,  he  came  back  to  my  desk,  and  consoled 
himself  by  talking  to  me. 

A  young  lady  in  the  family  he  greeted  by  flying  at  her, 
alighting  on  her  chair-back,  clawing  her  neck,  and 
squawking;  and  before  a  youth  who  often  teased  him  he 
trailed  his  wings  on  the  floor,  tail  spread  and  dragging 
also,  uttering  a  curious  "Obble!  obble!"  something  like 
the  cry  of  a  turkey.  The  head  of  the  household  he  met 
with  stamping  of  the  feet,  and  no  sound ;  while  at  a  maid 
who  came  in  to  sweep  he  always  flew  furiously,  aiming 
for  her  head,  and  invariably  frightening  her  half  out  of 
her  wits. 

The  jay  was  extremely  wary  about  anything  like  a 
trap,  and  being  always  on  the  lookout  for  one,  he  some 
times,  like  bigger  persons,  fooled  himself  badly.  Find 
ing  him  fond  of  standing  on  a  set  of  turning  bookshelves, 
I  thought  to  please  him  by  arranging  over  it  a  conven 
ient  resting-place.  He  watched  me  with  great  interest, 
but,  when  I  had  finished,  declined  to  use  the  perch, 
though  ordinarily  nothing  could  keep  him  from  trying 
every  new  thing.  I  put  a  bait  on  it,  in  the  shape  of  bits 
of  gum-drops,  a  favorite  delicacy;  but  he  plainly  saw 
that  I  wanted  him  to  go  on  it,  and  in  the  face  of  the  fact 
that  I  had  heretofore  tried  to  keep  him  off  the  papers 
and  magazines,  he  decided  that  it  was  suspicious.  He 
flew  so  as  almost  to  touch  the  stick,  and  hovered  before 
it  to  snatch  off  the  candy;  but  alight  on  it  he  would 
not,  and  did  not,  though  I  kept  it  there. 


174  THE  BLUE-JAY 

In  many  ways  this  bird  was  wise;  he  knew  exactly 
where  to  deliver  his  blows  to  effect  what  he  desired.  A 
cage  door  being  fastened  with  fine  wire,  he  never  wasted 
a  stroke  upon  the  door,  but  gave  telling  blows  directly 
upon  the  wire.  A  rubber  band  was  looped  about  a  rod 
for  him  to  play  with,  in  the  expectation  that  he  would 
pull  on  it  and  make  sport;  but  he  disappointed  us  all  by 
hammering  at  the  loop,  until  he  loosened  it  and  easily 
pulled  it  off.  Again,  it  was  tied  on  with  strong  linen 
thread;  he  turned  his  whole  attention  to  the  knot  of  the 
latter,  till  it  yielded  and  was  disposed  of  also. 

Dear  as  was  this  bird,  he  was  a  more  than  usually 
troublesome  pet.  My  desk  became  his  favorite  play 
ground,  and  havoc  indeed  he  made  with  the  things  upon 
it,  snatching  and  running  off  with  paper,  pen,  or  any 
small  object,  destroying  boxes,  and  injuring  books. 
Finally,  in  self-defense,  I  adopted  the  plan  of  laying  over 
it  every  every  morning  a  woolen  cloth,  which  must  be 
lifted  every  time  anything  was  taken  from  the  desk. 
This  arrangement  did  not  please  my  small  friend  in 
blue,  and  he  took  pains  to  express  his  displeasure  in 
the  most  emphatic  way.  He  came  down  on  the  cover, 
tramped  all  over  it,  and  sought  small  holes  in  it,  through 
which  to  thrust  his  bill.  One  day' he  was  busily  engaged 
in  hammering  a  book  through  an  opening,  and  to  cure 
him  of  the  trick  I  slipped  my  hand  under,  caught  his 
beak  between  two  fingers,  and  held  it  a  moment.  This 
amazed,  but  did  not  alarm  the  bird;  on  the  contrary,  he 
plainly  decided  to  persevere  till  he  found  out  the  secret. 
He  pecked  the  mounds  made  by  my  fingers;  he  stooped 
and  looked  into  the  hole,  and  then  probed  again.  This 
time  I  held  him  longer,  so  that  he  had  to  struggle  and 


THE   BLUE-JAY  175 

beat  his  wings  to  get  away,  and  then  he  walked  off  in 
dignantly.  Still  he  was  not  satisfied  about  that  mystery, 
and  in  a  moment  he  was  back  again,  trying  in  new  ways 
to  penetrate  it.  I  was  tired  before  he  was.  He  was 
baffled  only  temporarily :  he  soon  learned  to  draw  up  the 
fabric,  hold  the  slack  under  one  foot  while  he  pulled  it 
still  farther,  and  thus  soon  reach  anything  he  desired. 

The  blue-jay  always  pried  into  packages  by  pecking  a 
hole  in  the  wrapper,  and  examining  the  contents  through 
that;  and  boxes  he  opened  by  delivering  upward  blows 
under  the  edge  of  the  cover.  The  waste-basket  he  nearly 
emptied  from  the  outside,  by  dragging  papers  through 
the  openings  in  the  weaving.  Seeing  two  or  three 
unmounted  photographs  put  into  a  book,  he  went  speed 
ily  for  that  volume,  thrust  his  beak  into  the  slight  open 
ing  made  by  the  pictures,  and  pulled  them  out,  flying  at 
once  across  the  room  with  one  in  his  mouth.  It  was  se 
cured  and  put  back,  and  the  book  held  down  by  a  heavy 
weight;  but  he  found  the  place  at  once,  and  repeated  the 
naughtiness.  The  book  had  to  be  completely  covered  up 
before  the  photographs  were  safe. 

After  the  blue- jay  had  put  on  a  new  suit  of  feathers 
he  flew  with  great  ease,  and  selected  for  a  retreat  the  top 
of  a  door  into  the  passageway  mentioned,  which  usu 
ally  stood  open.  It  was  not  long  before  his  curiosity  was 
roused  to  know  what  was  outside  the  door  that  so  often 
swallowed  up  his  friends  —  that  into  the  hall.  He  re 
solved  to  find  out,  and  to  that  end,  when  stationed  on 
the  elevated  perch  of  his  choice,  held  himself  in  readi 
ness,  upon  the  exit  of  anyone,  to  fly  out.  He  did  not 
wish  to  get  away;  he  merely  took  a  turn  in  the  hall,  and 
came  back;  and  once,  when  accidentally  left  in  that 


176  THE  BLUE-JAY 

unfamiliar  place,  he  stayed  in  the  bathroom,  with  win 
dow  wide  open,  for  half  an  hour  before  he  was  found. 
He  became  so  expert  in  flying  out  of  the  door  that  it  was 
a  difficult  matter  to  pass  through  without  his  company; 
we  had  to  train  ourselves  in  sleight  of  hand  to  outwit 
him.  There  were  two  ways  of  getting  the  better  of  him; 
mere  suddenness  was  of  no  use  —  he  was  much  quicker 
than  we  were.  One  way  was  to  go  to  the  room  on  the 
other  side  of  the  passage,  where  he  was  sure  to  follow, 
and  before  he  fairly  settled  there,  to  dodge  back  and 
shut  the  door  —  a  proceeding  so  unexpected  that  he 
never  learned  to  allow  for  it.  The  other  way  was  to  go 
to  the  hall  door,  as  if  intending  to  open  it;  instantly  the 
bird  swooped  down,  ready  to  slip  out  also,  but  finding 
the  way  closed,  swept  around  the  room  and  alighted 
somewhere.  This  was  the  second  to  open  the  door  and 
step  out,  for  he  always  paused  a  moment  before  flying 
again. 

The  only  notice  the  jay  ever  took  of  the  birds,  as  said 
above,  was  to  tease  them,  or  put  them  in  a  flutter;  as 
society,  he  plainly  despised  them.  They  soon  learned  to 
regard  him  as  a  sort  of  infernal  machine,  liable  at  any 
moment  to  explode;  and  they  were  fully  justified,  for  he 
was  fond  of  surprising  them  by  unexpectedly  flying 
around  the  room,  tail  spread,  feathers  rustling,  squawk 
ing  madly  in  a  loud  voice.  He  usually  managed,  in  his 
career,  to  sweep  close  over  the  head  of  every  bird,  of 
course  frightening  them  off  their  perches,  and  thus  to 
put  the  whole  room  into  a  panic.  They  took  refuge  any 
where,  —  under  the  bed,  behind  the  chairs,  against  the 
wires,  and  on  the  floor,  —  while  the  mischief-maker  cir 
cled  around,  filling  the  air  with  shrieks,  then  suddenly 


THE   BLUE-JAY  177 

dropped  to  the  round  of  a  chair,  and  calmly  dressed  his 
feathers,  as  if  he  had  merely  been  exercising  his  wings. 

Poor  little  fellow!  he  was  hardly  more  than  a  baby, 
and  not  very  brave.  A  big  grasshopper  which  once  got 
into  the  room  afforded  him  great  excitement  and  the 
spectators  much  amusement.  He  saw  it  before  his  cage 
was  opened,  and  as  soon  as  he  came  out  he  went  after 
it.  The  insect  hopped  up  three  feet,  and  so  startled  the 
bird  that  he  jumped  almost  as  high.  When  it  alighted 
he  picked  it  up,  but,  seeming  not  to  know  what  to  do 
with  it,  soon  dropped  it.  Again  it  hopped,  and  again  the 
jay  repeated  his  bound;  and  this  performance  went  on 
for  some  minutes,  one  of  the  drollest  of  sights  —  his  cau 
tious  approach,  the  spring  of  the  insect,  and  his  instant 
copy  of  the  same,  as  if  in  emulation.  After  being  picked 
up  several  times  the  grasshopper  was  disabled;  then, 
when  the  bird  came  near,  it  lifted  its  wings,  plainly  to 
scare  its  persecutor;  it  did  awe  him.  Meanwhile,  an  or 
chard  oriole  had  been  eagerly  looking  on,  and  on  one 
occasion  that  the  grasshopper  was  dropped,  he  pounced 
on  it,  and  carried  it  off  to  a  chair,  where  he  proceeded  to 
eat  it,  though  it  was  so  big  as  to  be  almost  unmanage 
able.  The  jay  did  not  like  being  deprived  of  his  play 
thing.  He  ran  after  the  thief,  and  stood  on  the  floor, 
uttering  a  low  cry  while  watching  the  operation.  In  the 
oriole's  moving  the  clumsy  insect  fell  to  the  floor,  when 
the  jay  snatched  it;  and  it  was  evident  that  he  had  got 
a  new  idea  about  its  use,  for  he  carried  it  under  a  chair 
and  demolished  it  completely  —  not  even  a  wing 
remained. 

More  disturbing  to  the  jay,  strange  as  it  may  seem, 
was  a  tree.  It  was  really  touching  to  see  a  bird  afraid  of 


178  THE   BLUE-JAY 

this,  but  the  poor  youngster  had  been  taken  from  the 
nest  to  a  house.  A  Christmas  tree  was  brought  into  the 
bird-room  to  please  the  residents  there,  when,  to  our 
amazement,  the  jay  went  into  a  wild  fright,  flew  madly 
around  near  the  ceiling,  squawking,  and  making  the 
other  birds  think  something  terrible  had  happened.  He 
flew  till  he  was  breathless,  and  was  evidently  very  much 
distressed.  For  three  or  four  days  he  was  equally 
alarmed,  the  moment  he  caught  sight  of  it  in  the  morn 
ing  and  whenever  I  moved  it  an  inch,  though  the  other 
birds  liked  it,  and  were  on  it  half  the  time.  When  he  did 
get  used  to  it,  he  did  not  go  on  it,  but  to  the  standard 
below,  where  he  could  pick  the  needle-like  leaves,  and 
carry  them  off  to  hide  about  the  room. 

He  was  a  very  beautiful  bird  when  in  perfect  plum 
age.  There  were  six  distinct  shades  of  blue,  besides  rich 
velvety  black,  snowy  white,  delicate  dove-color,  and 
blue-gray.  He  is  too  well  known  to  need  description, 
but  a  jay  is  not  often  so  closely  seen,  when  alive  and  in 
perfection  of  plumage.  This  bird  had  a  charming  way  of 
folding  his  wings  that  hid  all  the  plain  blue-gray.  When 
held  thus,  and  laid  together  over  the  back,  there  were 
displayed  first  the  beautiful  tail,  with  broad,  white 
edges  to  the  feathers ;  above  it  the  wings,  looking  like  a 
square-cut  mantle,  of  the  same  colors ;  above  this  a  deep 
pointed  shoulder  cape,  of  rich  violet  blue,  the  feathers 
fluffed  up  loosely;  and  at  the  top  of  all  his  exquisite 
crest. 


Courtesy  National  Association  of  Audubon  Societies 

BLUE-JAY 


A  YOUNG  DESPERADO 

BY  THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 

WHEN  Johnny  is  all  snugly  curled  up  in  bed,  with  his 
rosy  cheek  resting  on  one  of  his  scratched  and  grimy 
little  hands,  forming  altogether  a  perfect  picture  of  peace 
and  innocence,  it  seems  hard  to  realize  what  a  busy, 
restive,  pugnacious,  badly  ingenious  little  wretch  he  is! 
There  is  something  so  comical  in  those  funny  little  shoes 
and  stockings  sprawling  on  the  floor,  —  they  look  as  if 
they  could  jump  up  and  run  off,  if  they  wanted  to,  — 
there  is  something  so  laughable  about  those  little  trou 
sers,  which  appear  to  be  making  vain  attempts  to  climb 
up  into  the  easy-chair,  —  the  said  trousers  still  retain 
ing  the  shape  of  Johnny's  little  legs,  and  refusing  to  go 
to  sleep,  —  there  is  something,  I  say,  about  these  things, 
and  about  Johnny  himself,  which  makes  it  difficult  for 
me  to  remember  that,  when  Johnny  is  awake,  he  not 
unfrequently  displays  traits  of  character  not  to  be  com 
pared  with  anything  but  the  cunning  of  an  Indian  war 
rior,  combined  with  the  combative  qualities  of  a  trained 
prize-fighter. 

I'm  sure  I  don't  know  how  he  came  by  such  unpleas 
ant  propensities.  I  am  myself  the  meekest  of  men.  Of 
course,  I  don't  mean  to  imply  that  Johnny  inherited  his 
warlike  disposition  from  his  mother.  She  is  the  gentlest 
of  women.  But  when  you  come  to  Johnny  —  he's  the 
terror  of  the  whole  neighborhood. 


A  YOUNG  DESPERADO  181 

He  was  meek  enough  at  first  —  that  is  to  say,  for  the 
first  six  or  seven  days  of  his  existence.  But  I  verily  be 
lieve  that  he  was  n't  more  than  eleven  days  old  when  he 
showed  a  degree  of  temper  that  shocked  me  —  shocked 
me  in  one  so  young.  On  that  occasion  he  turned  very 
red  in  the  face,  —  he  was  quite  red  before,  —  doubled 
up  his  ridiculous  hands  in  the  most  threatening  manner, 
and  finally,  in  the  impotency  of  rage,  punched  himself 
in  the  eye.  When  I  think  of  the  life  he  led  his  mother 
and  Susan  during  the  first  eighteen  months  I  shrink 
from  the  responsibility  of  allowing  him  to  call  me  father. 

Johnny's  aggressive  disposition  was  not  more  early 
developed  than  his  duplicity.  By  the  time  he  was  two 
years  of  age,  I  had  got  the  following  maxim  by  heart: 
"Whenever  J.is  particularly  quiet,  look  out  for  squalls." 
He  was  sure  to  be  in  some  mischief.  And  I  must  say  there 
was  a  novelty,  an  unexpectedness,  an  ingenuity,  in  his 
badness  that  constantly  astonished  me.  The  crimes  he 
committed  could  be  arranged  alphabetically.  He  never 
repeated  himself.  His  evil  resources  were  inexhaustible. 
He  never  did  the  thing  I  expected  he  would.  He  never 
failed  to  do  the  thing  I  was  unprepared  for.  I  am  not 
thinking  so  much  of  the  time  when  he  painted  my  writ 
ing-desk  with  raspberry  jam,  as  of  the  occasion  when  he 
perpetrated  an  act  of  original  cruelty  on  Mopsey,  a 
favorite  kitten  in  the  household.  \Ve  were  sitting  in  the 
library.  Johnny  was  playing  in  the  front  hall.  In  view 
of  the  supernatural  stillness  that  reigned,  I  remarked, 
suspiciously,  "Johnny  is  very  quiet,  my  dear."  At  that 
moment  a  series  of  pathetic  mews  was  heard  in  the 
entry,  followed  by  a  violent  scratching  on  the  oilcloth. 
Then  Mopsey  bounded  into  the  room  with  three  empty 


182  A  YOUNG  DESPERADO 

spools  strung  on  her  tail.  The  spools  were  removed 
with  great  difficulty,  especially  the  last  one,  which  fit 
ted  remarkably  tight.  After  that,  Mopsey  never  saw 
a  work-basket  without  arching  her  tortoise-shell  back, 
and  distending  her  tail  to  three  times  its  natural 
thickness.  Another  child  would  have  squeezed  the  kit 
ten,  or  stuck  a  pin  in  it,  or  twisted  her  tail ;  but  it  was  re 
served  for  the  superior  genius  of  Johnny  to  string  rather 
small  spools  on  it.  He  never  did  the  obvious  thing. 

It  was  this  fertility  and  happiness,  if  I  may  say  so, 
of  invention,  that  prevented  me  from  being  entirely  de 
jected  over  my  son's  behavior  at  this  period.  Some 
times  the  temptation  to  seize  him  and  shake  him  was 
too  strong  for  poor  human  nature.  But  I  always  regret 
ted  it  afterwards.  When  I  saw  him  asleep  in  his  tiny 
bed,  with  one  tear  dried  on  his  plump  velvety  cheek  and 
two  little  mice-teeth  visible  through  the  parted  lips,  I 
could  n't  help  thinking  what  a  little  bit  of  a  fellow  he 
was,  and  it  did  n't  seem  to  me  that  he  was  the  sort  of 
person  to  be  pitched  into  by  a  great  strong  man  like  me. 

"When  Johnny  grows  older,"  I  used  to  say  to  his 
mother,  "I'll  reason  with  him." 

Now  I  don't  know  when  Johnny  will  grow  old  enough 
to  be  reasoned  with.  When  I  reflect  how  hard  it  is  to 
reason  with  wise  grown-up  people,  if  they  happen  to  be 
unwilling  to  accept  your  view  of  matters,  I  am  inclined 
to  be  very  patient  with  Johnny,  whose  experience  is 
rather  limited,  after  all,  though  he  is  six  years  and  a  half 
old,  and  naturally  wants  to  know  why  and  wherefore. 
Somebody  says  something  about  the  duty  of  "blind 
obedience."  I  can't  expect  Johnny  to  be  more  philo 
sophic  than  the  philosophers. 


A  YOUNG  DESPERADO  183 

At  times,  indeed,  I  have  been  led  to  expect  this  from 
him.  He  has  shown  a  depth  of  mind  that  warranted  me 
in  looking  for  anything.  At  times  he  seems  as  if  he  were 
a  hundred  years  old.  He  has  a  quaint,  bird-like  way  of 
cocking  his  head  on  one  side,  and  asking  a  question  that 
appears  to  be  the  result  of  years  of  study.  If  I  could  an 
swer  some  of  those  questions,  I  should  solve  the  darkest 
mysteries  of  life  and  death.  His  inquiries,  however,  gen 
erally  have  a  grotesque  flavor.  One  night,  when  the 
mosquitoes  were  making  lively  raids  on  his  person,  he 
appealed  to  me,  suddenly:  "How  does  the  moon  feel 
when  a  skeeter  bites  it?"  To  his  meditative  mind,  the 
broad,  smooth  surface  of  the  moon  presented  a  tempta 
tion  not  to  be  resisted  by  any  stray  skeeter. 

I  freely  confess  that  Johnny  is  now  and  then  too  much 
for  me.  I  wish  I  could  read  him  as  cleverly  as  he  reads 
me.  He  knows  all  my  weak  points ;  he  sees  right  through 
me,  and  makes  me  feel  that  I  am  a  helpless  infant  in  his 
adroit  hands.  He  has  an  argumentative,  oracular  air, 
when  things  have  gone  wrong,  which  always  upsets  my 
dignity.  Yet  how  cunningly  he  uses  his  power!  It  is 
only  in  the  last  extremity  that  he  crosses  his  legs,  puts 
his  hands  into  his  trousers  pockets,  and  argues  the  case. 

One  day  last  week  he  was  very  near  coming  to  grief. 
By  my  directions,  kindling-wood  and  coal  are  placed 
every  morning  in  the  library  grate,  so  that  I  may  have 
a  fire  the  moment  I  return  at  night.  Master  Johnny 
must  needs  apply  a  lighted  match  to  this  arrange 
ment  early  in  the  forenoon.  The  fire  was  not  discovered 
until  the  blower  was  one  mass  of  red-hot  iron,  and  the 
wooden  mantelpiece  was  smoking  with  the  intense  heat. 

When  I  came  home,  Johnny  was  led  from  the  store- 


184  A  YOUNG  DESPERADO 

room,  where  he  had  been  imprisoned  from  an  early  pe 
riod,  and  where  he  had  employed  himself  in  eating  about 
two  dollars'  worth  of  preserved  pears. 

"Johnny,"  said  I,  in  as  severe  a  tone  as  one  could  use 
in  addressing  a  person  whose  forehead  glistened  with 
syrup,  "Johnny,  don't  you  remember  that  I  have 
always  told  you  never  to  meddle  with  matches?" 

It  was  something  delicious  to  see  Johnny  trying  to  re 
member.  He  cast  one  eye  meditatively  up  to  the  ceiling, 
then  he  fixed  it  abstractedly  on  the  canary-bird,  then  he 
rubbed  his  ruffled  brows  with  a  sticky  hand;  but  really, 
for  the  life  of  him,  he  could  n't  recall  any  injunctions 
concerning  matches. 

"I  can't,  papa,  truly,  truly,"  said  Johnny  at  length. 
"I  guess  I  must  have  forgot  it." 

"  Well,  Johnny,  in  order  that  you  may  not  forget  it  in 
future  —  " 

Here  Johnny  was  seized  with  an  idea.  He  interrupted 
me.  "I'll  tell  you  what  you  do,  papa  —  you  just  put  it 
down  in  writin'." 

With  the  air  of  a  man  who  has  settled  a  question  def 
initely,  but  at  the  same  time  is  willing  to  listen  politely 
to  any  crude  suggestions  that  you  may  have  to  throw 
out,  Johnny  crossed  his  legs,  and  thrust  his  hands  into 
those  wonderful  trousers  pockets.  I  turned  my  face 
aside,  for  I  felt  a  certain  weakness  creeping  into  the 
corners  of  my  mouth.  I  was  lost.  In  an  instant  the  little 
head,  covered  with  yellow  curls,  was  laid  on  my  knee, 
and  Johnny  was  crying,  "I'm  so  very,  very  sorry!" 

I  have  said  that  Johnny  is  the  terror  of  the  neighbor 
hood.  I  think  I  have  not  done  the  young  gentleman  an 
injustice.  If  there  is  a  window  broken  within  the  radius 


A  YOUNG  DESPERADO  185 

of  two  miles  from  our  house,  Johnny's  ball,  or  a  stone 
known  to  come  from  his  dexterous  hand,  is  almost  cer 
tain  to  be  found  in  the  battered  premises.  I  never  hear 
the  musical  jingling  of  splintered  glass,  but  my  porte- 
monnaie  gives  a  convulsive  throb  in  my  breast-pocket. 
There  is  not  a  doorstep  in  our  street  that  has  n't  borne 
evidences  in  red  chalk  of  his  artistic  ability ;  there  is  n't 
a  bell  that  he  has  n't  rung  and  run  away  from  at  least 
three  hundred  times.  Scarcely  a  day  passes  but  he  falls 
out  of,  or  over,  or  into  something.  A  ladder  running 
up  to  the  dizzy  roof  of  an  unfinished  building  is  no  more 
to  be  resisted  by  him  than  the  back  platform  of  a  horse- 
car,  when  the  conductor  is  collecting  his  fare  in  front. 

I  should  not  like  to  enumerate  the  battles  that  Johnny 
has  fought  during  the  past  eight  months.  It  is  a  physical 
impossibility,  I  should  judge,  for  him  to  refuse  a  chal 
lenge.  He  picks  his  enemies  out  of  all  ranks  of  society. 
He  has  fought  the  ash-man's  boy,  the  grocer's  boy,  the 
rich  boys  over  the  way,  and  any  number  of  miscella 
neous  boys  who  chanced  to  stray  into  our  street. 

I  can't  say  that  this  young  desperado  is  always  vic 
torious.  I  have  known  the  tip  of  his  nose  to  be  in  a  state 
of  unpleasant  redness  for  weeks  together.  I  have  known 
him  to  come  home  frequently  with  no  brim  to  his  hat; 
once  he  presented  himself  with  only  one  shoe,  on  which 
occasion  his  jacket  was  split  up  the  back  in  a  manner 
that  gave  him  the  appearance  of  an  over-ripe  chestnut 
bursting  out  of  its  bur.  How  he  will  fight!  But  this  I 
can  say  —  if  Johnny  is  as  cruel  as  Caligula,  he  is  every 
bit  as  brave  as  Agamemnon.  I  never  knew  him  to  strike 
a  boy  smaller  than  himself.  I  never  knew  him  to  tell  a 
lie  when  a  lie  would  save  him  from  disaster. 


186  A  YOUNG  DESPERADO 

At  present  the  General,  as  I  sometimes  call  him,  is  in 
hospital.  He  was  seriously  wounded  at  the  Battle  of 
the  Little  Go-Cart,  on  the  9th  instant.  On  returning 
from  my  office  I  found  that  scarred  veteran  stretched 
upon  a  sofa,  with  a  patch  of  brown  paper  over  his  left 
eye,  and  a  convicting  smell  of  vinegar  about  him. 

"Yes,"  said  his  mother,  dolefully,  "Johnny's  been 
fighting  again.  That  horrid  Barnabee  boy  (who  is  eight 
years  old,  if  he  is  a  day)  won't  let  the  child  alone." 

"Well,"  said  I,  "I  hope  Johnny  gave  that  Barnabee 
boy  a  thrashing." 

" Did  n't  I,  though?  "  cries  Johnny.    "  /  bet ! " 

"O  Johnny!"  says  his  mother. 

Now,  several  days  previous  to  this,  I  had  addressed 
the  General  thus:  "Johnny,  if  I  ever  catch  you  in 
another  fight  of  your  own  seeking,  I  shall  cane  you." 

In  consequence  of  this  declaration,  it  became  my  duty 
to  look  into  the  circumstances  of  the  present  affair, 
which  will  be  IOIOWTI  in  history  as  the  Battle  of  the  Little 
Go-Cart.  After  going  over  the  ground  very  carefully,  I 
found  the  following  to  be  the  state  of  the  case. 

It  seems  that  the  Barnabee  Boy  —  I  speak  of  him  as 
if  he  were  the  Benicia  Boy  —  is  the  oldest  pupil  in  the 
Primary  Military  School  (I  think  it  must  be  a  military 
school)  of  which  Johnny  is  a  recent  member.  This 
Barnabee,  having  whipped  every  one  of  his  companions, 
was  sighing  for  new  boys  to  conquer,  when  Johnny 
joined  the  institution.  He  at  once  made  friendly  over 
tures  of  battle  to  Johnny,  who,  oddly  enough,  seemed 
indisposed  to  encourage  his  advances.  Then  Barnabee 
began  a  series  of  petty  persecutions,  which  had  con 
tinued  up  to  the  day  of  the  fight. 


A  YOUNG  DESPERADO  187 

On  the  morning  of  that  eventful  day  the  Barnabee 
Boy  appeared  in  the  school-yard  with  a  small  go-cart. 
After  running  down  on  Johnny  several  times  with  this 
useful  vehicle,  he  captured  Johnny's  cap,  filled  it  with 
sand,  and  dragged  it  up  and  down  the  yard  triumphantly 
in  the  go-cart.  This  made  the  General  very  angry,  of 
course,  and  he  took  an  early  opportunity  of  kicking  over 
the  triumphal  car,  in  doing  which  he  kicked  one  of  the 
wheels  so  far  into  space  that  it  has  not  been  seen  since. 

This  brought  matters  to  a  crisis.  The  battle  would 
have  taken  place  then  and  there;  but  at  that  moment 
the  school-bell  rang,  and  the  gladiators  were  obliged  to 
give  their  attention  to  Smith's  Speller.  But  a  gloom 
hung  over  the  morning's  exercises  —  a  gloom  that  was 
not  dispelled  in  the  back  row,  when  the  Barnabee  Boy 
stealthily  held  up  to  Johnny's  vision  a  slate,  whereon 
was  inscribed  this  fearful  message :  — 


Johnny  got  it  "put  down  in  writin'  "  this  time! 

After  a  hasty  glance  at  the  slate,  the  General  went 
on  with  his  studies  composedly  enough.  Eleven  o'clock 
came,  and  with  it  recess,  and  the  inevitable  battle. 

Now  I  do  not  intend  to  describe  the  details  of  this  bril- 


188  A  YOUNG  DESPERADO 

liant  action,  for  the  sufficient  reason  that,  though  there 
were  seven  young  gentlemen  (connected  with  the  Pri 
mary  School)  on  the  field  as  war  correspondents,  their 
accounts  of  the  engagement  are  so  contradictory  as  to 
be  utterly  worthless.  On  one  point  they  all  agree  —  that 
the  contest  was  sharp,  short,  and  decisive.  The  truth 
is,  the  General  is  a  quick,  wiry,  experienced  old  hero; 
and  it  did  n't  take  him  long  to  rout  the  Barnabee  Boy, 
who  was  in  reality  a  coward,  as  all  bullies  and  tyrants 
ever  have  been,  and  always  will  be. 

I  don't  approve  of  boys  fighting;  I  don't  defend 
Johnny;  but  if  the  General  wants  an  extra  ration  or  two 
of  preserved  pear,  he  shall  have  it! 

I  am  well  aware  that,  socially  speaking,  Johnny  is  a 
Black  Sheep.  I  know  that  I  have  brought  him  up  badly, 
and  that  there  is  not  an  unmarried  man  or  woman  in 
the  United  States  who  would  n't  have  brought  him  up 
very  differently.  It's  a  great  pity  that  the  only  people 
who  know  how  to  manage  children  never  have  any !  At 
the  same  time,  Johnny  is  not  a  black  sheep  all  over.  He 
has  some  white  spots.  His  sins  —  if  wiser  folks  had  no 
greater!  —  are  the  result  of  too  much  animal  life.  They 
belong  to  his  evanescent  youth,  and  will  pass  away ;  but 
his  honesty,  his  generosity,  his  bravery,  belong  to  his 
character,  and  are  enduring  qualities.  The  quickly 
crowding  years  will  tame  him.  A  good  large  pane  of 
glass,  or  a  seductive  bell-knob,  ceases  in  time  to  have 
attractions  for  the  most  reckless  spirit.  And  I  am  quite 
confident  that  Johnny  will  be  a  great  statesman,  or  a 
valorous  soldier,  or,  at  all  events,  a  good  citizen,  after 
he  has  got  over  being  A  Young  Desperado. 


A   GROUP  OF   CHRISTMAS   POEMS 

AT    THE    MANGER 
BY  JOHN  B.  TABB 

WHEN  first,  her  Christmas  watch  to  keep, 
Came  down  the  silent  Angel,  Sleep, 

With  snowy  sandals  shod, 
Beholding  what  his  mother's  hands 
Had  wrought,  with  softer  swaddling-bands 

She  swathed  the  Son  of  God. 

Then,  skilled  in  mysteries  of  Night, 
With  tender  visions  of  delight 

She  wreathed  his  resting-place, 
Till,  wakened  by  a  warmer  glow 
Than  heaven  itself  had  yet  to  show, 

He  saw  his  mother's  face. 

THE    LITTLE    CHRIST 
BY  LAURA   SPENCER  PORTOR 

MOTHER,  I  am  thy  little  Son  — 
Why  weepest  thou? 

Hush!  for  I  see  a  crown  of  thorns, 
A  bleeding  brow. 

Mother,  I  am  thy  little  Son  — 
Why  dost  thou  sigh? 

Hush!  for  the  shadow  of  the  years 
Stoopeth  more  nigh! 


190      A   GROUP  OF   CHRISTMAS  POEMS 

Mother,  I  am  thy  little  Son  — 

Oh,  smile  on  me. 
The  birds  sing  blithe,  the  birds  sing  gay, 

The  leaf  laughs  on  the  tree. 

Oh,  hush  thee!     The  leaves  do  shiver  sore; 

That  tree  whereon  they  grow, 
I  see  it  hewn,  and  bound,  to  bear 

The  weight  of  human  woe! 

Mother,  I  am  thy  little  Son  — 

The  Night  comes  on  apace  — 
When  all  God's  waiting  stars  shall  smile 

On  me  in  thy  embrace. 

Oh,  hush  thee!     I  see  black  starless  night! 

Oh,  could' st  thou  slip  away 
Now,  by  the  hawthorn  hedge  of  Death  — 

And  get  to  God  by  Day! 

AT    CHRYSTEMESSE-TYDE 
BY  WILLIS  BOYD  ALLEN 

Two  sorrie  Thynges  there  be  — 

Ay,  three: 
A  Neste  from  which  ye  Fledglings  have  been  taken, 

A  Lambe  forsaken, 
A  redde  leaf  from  ye  Wilde  Rose  rudely  shaken. 

Of  gladde  Thynges  there  be  more  — 

Ay,  four: 
A  Larke  above  ye  olde  Neste  blithely  singing, 

A  Wilde  Rose  clinging 
In  safety  to  a  Rock,  a  Shepherde  bringing 
A   Lambe,  found,  in  his   armes,   and   Chrystemesse 
Bells  a-ringing. 


PARABLES   IN   MOTORS 

THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 

THE  other  day  I  was  escorting  an  elderly  philanthro 
pist  across  a  crowded  street.  She  is  a  lady  of  vigorous 
opinions  and  free  speech,  gems  of  which  I  herewith  string 
together  without  exhibiting  the  thread  of  my  own  color 
less  rejoinders. 

"Did  you  ever  see  anything  so  outrageous  as  these 
motors!"  she  exclaimed  in  righteous  wrath,  as  we  just 
escaped  being  crushed  between  a  taxi-cab  and  a  huge 
touring-car.  "Automobiles  are  such  insolent  advertise 
ments  of  wealth!  I  don't  see  how  their  owners  can  en 
dure  being  either  hated  or  envied  by  that  portion  of  the 
world  that  has  not  yet  lost  the  use  of  its  legs.  For  every 
human  being  automobiles  kill,  they  create  a  socialist. 
They  are  vulgar,  hideous,  death-dealing  machines,  put 
in  the  ignorant  hands  of  the  fools  who  own  them  and  the 
knaves  who  run  them.  Now  look  at  those  little  children 
trying  to  cross  the  street  —  and  that  poor  old  lady ! 
I  declare  the  chauffeur  is  simply  chasing  her  for  his  own 
cruel  sport  —  hunting  her  as  he  would  a  fox,  and  blow 
ing  his  horn."  Then,  —  in  italics,  -  "  /  can't  see  how  a 
self-respecting  person  with  any  love  or  regard  for  humanity 
can  own  a  motor."" 

The  next  time  I  saw  my  vindictive  friend  she  was 
tucked  up  in  borrowed  plumage,  and  comfortably  in 
stalled  in  the  limousine  of  an  acquaintance  who  had 


192  PARABLES  IN  MOTORS 

kindly  placed  her  car  at  our  disposal  to  visit  some  dis 
tant  charitable  institution  of  which  we  were  both  direc 
tors.  It  was  my  friend's  maiden  trip  in  an  automobile, 
and  as  we  bowled  gayly  along  she  seemed  to  have  for 
gotten  entirely  our  last  meeting  and  conversation. 

"I  must  say  the  motion  of  these  cars  is  delightful," 
she  said,  sinking  back  among  the  cushions  with  an  air  of 
perfect  ease  and  familiarity.  "Hew  safe  we  seem!  I 
really  think  it  would  do  no  harm  if  the  chauffeur  should 
go  a  little  faster.  Do  look  at  those  stupid  women  rush 
ing  across  the  street  like  frightened  hens !  I  should  think 
they'd  see  that  we're  not  going  to  run  into  them.  Now 
look  at  those  children !  It's  outrageous  that  they  should 
make  it  so  hard  for  the  chauffeur  to  avoid  running  over 
them.  If  we  killed  one  of  those  foolhardy  little  idiots, 
people  would  blame  us,  and  it  would  n't  be  our  fault  at 
all  —  it  would  be  simply  a  case  of  suicide." 

I  acquiesced  in  her  views,  as  I  had  done  once  before. 

"After  all,  there  is  a  great  deal  to  be  said  for  these 
motors,"  she  continued  judicially.  "They  are  not  only 
perfectly  delightful  to  ride  in,  but  they  make  all  kinds 
of  difficult  things  easy,  and  really,  most  of  the  people 
who  own  them  are  apt  to  be  very  considerate  to  those 
who  are  less  fortunate.  There  are  certainly  two  sides  to 
automobiling." 

There  you  have  the  chief  function  of  the  motor.  There 
is  nothing  else  I  can  think  of  which  changes  one's  point 
of  view  so  completely  and  so  suddenly.  A  logical  mind 
must  therefore  ask  itself,  "If  by  simply  stepping  into  an 
automobile  I  can  see  motors  and  motoring  from  an  en 
tirely  different  point  of  view,  cannot  I  believe  that  the 
same  metamorphosis  would  take  place  if  I  could  jump 


PARABLES   IN   MOTORS  193 

into  a  mental  motor  and  speed  rapidly  from  one  side  of  a 
question  to  another?" 

Surely  the  parable  of  the  motor  should  make  us  be 
lieve  in  the  existence  of  a  missing  link  in  the  chain  of  mu 
tual  understanding  which  ought  to  bind  all  humanity 
together.  And  if  that  lost  link  cannot  be  found,  may  we 
not  ourselves  manufacture  one?  (As  a  moral-monger  it 
is  with  difficulty  that  I  here  refrain  from  alluding  to  the 
"flaming  forge  of  Life"  as  an  appropriate  workshop  for 
the  manufacture  of  missing  links.)  It  is,  at  least,  in  har 
mony  with  my  parable  to  suggest  that  every  good  chauf 
feur  should  be  a  skilled  mechanic  as  well  as  a  driver. 

By  way  of  an  irrelevant  postscript,  I  will  mention  that 
when  I  stepped  in  yesterday  for  a  cup  of  tea  with  the 
lady  who  "could  not  see  how  any  self-respecting  person 
could  own  a  motor,"  I  found  her  snowed  under  a  pile  of 
circulars  stating  the  rival  claims  of  various  automobiles. 

"Should  you  advise  me  to  get  a  runabout,  or  a  tour 
ing-car?"  she  asked  with  perfect  seriousness. 

But  I  could  not  choose  between  them,  for  what  I  con 
sider  the  most  important  part  of  motors  —  the  par 
able  —  was  equally  sound  in  each. 


SCHOOL  CHILDREN  OF  FRANCE 

BY   OCTAVE   FORSANT 

THE  four  compositions  given  below,  taken  from  the 
collection  of  papers  written  for  the  examinations  for  the 
Diploma  in  1915,  and  reproduced  word  for  word,  give 
a  clearer  idea  than  any  commentary  of  the  mental 
qualities  of  the  children  of  Rheims.  I  may  add  that  the 
details  given  are  as  exact  as  possible. 

This  is  how  young  Andre  Deligny  describes  the  entry 
of  the  Germans  at  Rheims  on  September  4,  1914. 

"After  breakfast,  and  without  asking  my  parents' 
leave,  because  I  knew  very  well  that  it  would  not  have 
been  granted,  I  started  out  alone  to  see  the  Germans, 
who  had  just  arrived  in  the  Place  de  1'Hotel  de  Ville.  In 
front  of  the  Mayor's  office  I  saw  ten  or  twelve  horses 
hitched  to  lamp-posts;  some  German  cavalry  were  go 
ing  to  and  fro  on  the  opposite  sidewalk,  with  their  hands 
behind  their  backs  and  looking  rather  ill  at  ease.  One 
of  the  policemen  who  were  holding  back  the  crowd  made 
us  fall  back,  saying  that  the  German  Staff  was  just  com 
ing.  It  was  n't  long  before  they  came.  A  magnificent 
limousine  drove  out  of  rue  Colbert.  Five  officers  got 
out,  revolvers  in  hand,  and  the  car  went  in  under  the 
arch  at  the  left. 

"Suddenly  there  was  a  loud  report  like  a  clap  of 
thunder.  We  pricked  up  our  ears,  but  the  policeman  re 
assured  us,  saying  that  the  Germans  were  firing  blank 


SCHOOL   CHILDREN  OF  FRANCE       195 

shots  to  celebrate  the  arrival  of  their  staff.  In  a  min 
ute  there  was  a  second  shot,  and  a  third,  and  finally  a 
fourth  which  sounded  much  louder  than  the  others.  At 
the  same  time  pieces  of  iron  and  lumps  of  lead  came 
tumbling  down  from  the  roofs  near-by,  and  the  police 
man  cried,  'Sauve  qui  peut!' 

"I  understood  then  that  it  was  a  bombardment.  I 
ran  off  in  a  fright ;  I  don't  even  know  now  through  what 
streets  I  ran,  until  I  came  out  on  Place  d'Erlon.  The 
square  was  deserted ;  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  but 
an  abandoned  tram-car,  without  a  conductor.  At  that 
sight  I  was  more  frightened  than  ever,  I  ran  faster,  and 
during  that  frantic  race  I  had  to  lie  flat  on  my  stomach 
several  times  for  fear  of  the  shells.  At  last  I  got  home: 
my  mother  was  standing  at  the  door,  anxious  enough; 
but  I  told  her  I  was  all  right  and  confessed  my  dis 
obedience.  That  bombardment  taught  me  a  lesson,  and 
I  determined  not  to  go  out  any  more  without  my  par 
ents'  consent.  I  was  made  very  sad  by  what  I  had  seen : 
they  were  the  first  atrocities  committed  by  the  Ger 
mans  in  Rheims,  where  they  were  to  commit  so  many 
others." 

Young  Angeline  Menny  describes  in  these  words  the 
return  of  the  French  to  Rheims  eight  days  after  Sep 
tember  12,  as  the  result  of  the  victory  of  the  Marne. 

"The  eighth  day  we  had  spent  under  the  German 
yoke  had  come  to  an  end,  as  always,  in  sadness  and  de 
spair.  Suddenly  a  cannon-shot  like  a  thunder-clap 
made  us  jump.  Two  or  three  more  followed,  and  then 
the  cannon  roared  without  interruption.  Hope  sprang 
again:  could  it  be  the  French  returning?  After  a  sleep 
less  night  during  which  we  heard  the  rain  and  wind  and 


196       SCHOOL  CHILDREN  OF  FRANCE 

cannon  roaring,  we  were  just  going  home  when  —  oh, 
a  miracle!  —  we  saw  in  the  distance  the  red  trousers. 
In  a  few  seconds  all  the  streets  were  hung  with  flags. 
We  had  suffered  so  terribly  to  see  our  city  occupied  by 
the  enemy  and  to  hear  the  Boches  singing  their  hymn  of 
victory  in  every  street!  How  great  was  our  joy  to  see 
our  defenders  once  more !  We  no  longer  felt  our  weari 
ness.  Everybody  ran  after  them ;  people  embraced  them 
and  laughed,  and  wept,  and  acted  like  madmen.  You 
would  have  said  that  a  mother  had  found  her  child  who 
she  thought  was  lost. 

"The  shops  were  not  large  enough  for  their  custom 
ers;  everybody  was  offering  sweets  to  our  liberators. 
When  they  came  in  front  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  the 
Mayor  received  them  and  saluted  them  from  the 
steps.  Many  Germans  surrendered  in  the  streets.  That 
will  be  the  happiest  day  of  my  life." 

Lecoq  Raymond,  a  pupil,  tells  in  these  words  of  one 
of  the  numerous  bombardments  of  which  he  was  a  spec 
tator  and  nearly  a  victim. 

"Day  before  yesterday  we  were  just  eating  breakfast. 
It  was  half-past  seven  when  a  shell  passed  over  our 
heads  and  burst  a  hundred  metres  away.  We  jumped 
to  our  feet  and  listened.  The  shells  were  falling  now  by 
fours  in  our  quarter  and  bursting  with  a  tremendous 
crash.  From  the  house  we  could  hear  the  noise  of  falling 
tiles  and  beams  and  all  sorts  of  things.  Through  the 
open  window  —  it  was  a  warm  morning  —  we  watched 
the  smoke,  sometimes  white,  sometimes  gray  or  red 
dish,  rise  in  the  air,  taking  strange  shapes;  and  at  the 
same  time  the  fumes  of  burning  powder  got  into  our 
throats.  The  hissing  noises  came  fast,  one  on  another. 


SCHOOL   CHILDREN  OF  FRANCE       197 

A  shell  burst  50  metres  from  our  house;  a  yellowish 
smoke  rose  from  it,  and  with  a  sharp  hiss  a  fragment 
buried  itself  in  the  wall  a  metre  from  the  window.  We 
hurried  down  into  the  cellar  and  stayed  there  an  hour; 
then,  as  the  bombardment  had  stopped,  we  went  up, 
and  resumed  our  ordinary  life. 

"The  next  day  I  went  out  to  see  what  damage  had 
been  done:  unhappily  there  was  a  great  deal.  As  I 
walked  along,  I  saw  the  doors  of  the  shops  which  were 
still  occupied  open ;  people  went  and  came  without  hur 
rying,  looking  at  the  ruins.  A  traveling  kitchen  went 
through  the  street  with  a  pleasant  smell  of  soup.  House 
keepers  were  going  to  and  fro,  one  with  a  basket  on  her 
arm.  A  nice  old  man  who  had  not  left  his  house  went 
out  to  get  his  newspaper.  For  my  part,  I  took  my  school 
satchel  and  went  off  to  school,  where  I  tried  to  work  hard 
so  as  to  obtain  the  Diploma  as  a  reward  of  my  efforts." 

Last  of  the  four,  Georgette  Thierrus  tells  the  story  of 
the  battle  of  Thillois,  near  Rheims,  which  she  saw  with 
her  own  eyes. 

"In  the  last  ten  months  many  historical  events  have 
occurred :  one  of  them  happened  in  my  village,  and  I  shall 
never  forget  it.  Early  in  September  the  villages  near 
mine  were  occupied  by  the  Germans;  ours  was  visited 
by  only  a  few  of  the  enemy.  But  on  the  second,  about 
four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  the  invaders  appeared, 
to  the  number  of  several  thousand.  They  quartered 
themselves  and  passed  the  night  in  the  houses  and  lofts 
and  barns.  The  next  morning  they  started  early  and 
dug  trenches  in  the  fields.  Several  officers  said  to  us, 
'Hide  in  your  cellars  or  clear  out;  the  French  are  coming 
and  we're  going  to  fight.' 


198       SCHOOL   CHILDREN   OF  FRANCE 

"We  did  not  believe  a  word  of  it;  we  thought  that 
they  meant  to  pillage  our  houses.  Not  at  all  —  what 
they  said  was  quite  true.  In  fact,  at  a  quarter  past  two 
the  machine-guns  which  the  Germans  had  set  up  in  the 
church  tower  began  to  crackle,  then  the  cannon  roared 
loudly;  several  of  the  guns  were  near  our  houses.  The 
French  did  not  fire  on  the  village,  because  they  wanted 
to  spare  the  people,  but  into  the  near-by  fields.  They 
attacked  the  Germans  several  times,  but  were  driven 
back. 

"  It  was  not  until  four  in  the  afternoon  that,  victori 
ous  at  last,  they  made  their  way  into  the  village  and 
drove  the  Germans  out  with  the  bayonet.  Alas!  about 
two  hundred  of  our  soldiers  had  fallen.  The  Germans 
had  had  losses  too,  but  they  made  haste  to  burn  their 
dead.  Once  more  the  French  had  shown  their  gallantry 
and  courage,  for  they  had  been  victorious  over  superior 
forces." 

II.  KEEPING  SCHOOL  UNDER  FIRE 

The  Dubail  School  was  one  whigh  was  severely  tried. 
Not  only  did  more  than  a  hundred  shells  fall  in  its 
immediate  neighborhood,  but  three  damaged  the  build 
ing  itself,  and  two  actually  fell  in  the  schoolroom,  al 
though  we  had  no  fatal  results  to  deplore,  since  the  chil 
dren  were  got  out  on  time.  The  first,  a  210,  fell  on 
March  6, 1915,  a  Saturday,  at  five  minutes  to  nine  in  the 
morning,  when  the  children  and  their  teachers  were  as 
sembled  in  the  upper  store-room  ready  to  go  down  into 
the  schoolroom ;  and  the  second  on  March  27,  1916,  just 
as  they  were  all  going  down  into  the  cellar.  There  were 


200       SCHOOL   CHILDREN  OF  FRANCE 

also  some  other  happenings  not  less  noteworthy,  as  ap 
pears  from  the  following  extracts  from  the  Journal  of 
the  principal. 

"Monday,  February  8,  1915.  —  This  is  the  opening 
day  of  the  school,  as  announced  by  the  only  two  news 
papers  still  published  in  Rheims.  This  morning,  some 
time  before  the  hour  fixed,  a  number  of  mothers  were  on 
hand  with  their  children,  in  the  store-room  on  the  ground 
floor.  The  children  were  of  all  ages  from  four  to  twelve 
years,  and  very  clean  and  neat.  Some  of  them  had  even 
dressed  up  as  they  used  to  on  the  opening  day.  All  those 
little  creatures,  who  bow  to  the  teachers  on  their  arrival 
with  such  a  radiant  air,  seem  overjoyed  to  be  at  school 
again  with  their  little  comrades  after  such  a  long  holi 
day.  That  is  a  good  augury  for  their  future  assiduity 
and  work.  I  have  registered  some  new  names,  —  I  am 
up  to  seventy-six  now,  —  and  the  parents  have  gone 
away  after  kissing  the  little  ones  they  have  placed  in  our 
charge. 

"We  all  go  down  into  the  cellar.  Assisted  by  my  un- 
der-teachers,  I  go  through  a  rapid  examination  in  order 
to  divide  the  pupils  into  three  classes;  and  the  lessons 
begin. 

"How  impressive  it  was  —  that  first  session  in  cellars 
less  than  two  kilometres  from  the  enemy  lines,  while 
from  time  to  time  shells  passed  whistling  over  our  heads, 
to  fall  some  distance  beyond,  hammering  away  at  the 
city  with  a  sinister  rending  crash  which  we  shall  never 
forget!  Supplied  with  copy-books  of  all  sorts  and  with 
old  books  often  lacking  several  pages,  all  the  children 
set  to  work  with  zeal. 

"It  was  a  lovely  day.   The  sparse  beams  of  the  win> 


SCHOOL  CHILDREN  OF  FRANCE      201 

ter's  sun  which  filtered  through  the  ventilators  in  that 
part  of  the  room  where  I  was,  made  a  melancholy  con 
trast  to  the  yellowish  light  of  the  kerosene  lamps  set  in 
the  dark  corners.  And  during  the  dictation  exercise  of 
the  larger  children,  my  thoughts  strayed  back  to  our 
fine  schoolrooms  of  the  days  before  the  war  —  so  large 
and  so  pretty,  above  all,  so  healthy,  with  light  and  air 
pouring  in  in  floods.  What  a  change!  To  think  that 
those  'bandits,'  in  order  to  force  their  Kultur  on  us,  con 
demn  us  to  burrow  underground  thus,  with  our  poor 
children  who  cannot  help  themselves!  And  I  thought: 
if  a  shell  should  fall  on  the  building,  what  should  we  do 
with  all  these  children?  How  terribly  frightened  they 
would  be !  And  I  —  should  I  be  self-controlled  enough 
to  prevent  a  panic?  Yes,  I  simply  must! 

"Meanwhile  the  little  children  of  the  kindergarten 
stared  with  wide-open,  startled  eyes,  but  kept  very  quiet 
on  their  benches,  apparently  not  at  all  at  home.  Thus 
discipline  was  easily  maintained  on  that  first  day  of 
school!  Everybody  worked  with  zest;  and  four  hours 
of  teaching  pass  very  quickly.  Really  one  would  have 
thought  that  they  were  conscious  of  the  part  they  had 
to  pi  ay,  of  their  duty  —  those  little  darlings  who  seemed 
to  defy  the  German  close  by,  following  the  example  of 
their  fathers  who  flout  him  in  the  trenches.  With  such 
children  France  cannot  perish. 

"I  had  this  afternoon  106  scholars  (63  boys  and  43 
girls) ,  and  I  am  told  there  will  be  more  to  morrow.  All 
goes  well. 

"  Tuesday,  July  20.  —  Children  present,  174.  This 
day  will  remain  in  memory  as  one  of  the  most  memor 
able  of  the  dreadful  time  through  which  we  are  passing. 


202      SCHOOL  CHILDREN  OF  FRANCE 

For  an  hour  and  a  half  after  midday,  the  district  about 
the  Dubail  School  was  subjected  to  a  most  violent  bom 
bardment  by  large  shells.  It  had  been  unusually  quiet 
during  the  morning.  Suddenly,  just  when  we  were  least 
expecting  it,  there  came  a  characteristic  caterwauling, 
followed  almost  instantly  by  a  tremendous  explosion, 
while  the  square  near  by  was  filled  with  smoke,  and 
fragments,  large  and  small,  of  the  deadly  missiles  fell  in 
showers.  My  neighbor  Floquet's  house  was  hit.  There 
was  a  general  sauve-qui-peut. 

"Zzz!  Another  shell  bursts  thirty  metres  beyond,  in 
the  middle  of  the  square.  People  hurry  back  to  their 
homes  and  I  go  hastily  down  to  my  schoolroom  in  the 
basement.  The  shells  are  raining  down  on  all  sides,  and 
for  one  full  hour  there  is  a  frightful  uproar  throughout 
the  city.  A  shell  falls  on  the  garden  of  the  school  and  the 
last  panes  of  glass  in  the  last  ventilator  which  had  any 
left  are  shattered;  the  floor  all  about  us  is  strewn  with 
bits  of  glass.  Since  we  are  huddled  together  in  the  cen 
tre  of  the  room  no  one  is  hit.  At  last,  about  half-past 
one,  all  is  quiet  again;  we  go  out  and  learn  that  about 
fifty  shells  have  fallen  within  a  very  short  distance.  No 
one  was  killed,  most  fortunately;  but  two  persons  com 
ing  from  the  bakery  with  their  loaves  were  struck  by 
fragments;  one  was  severely  wounded  in  the  hand. 

"Saturday,  December  4.  —  This  morning,  about  a 
quarter  to  nine,  I  had  nearly  reached  the  school,  when  a 
shell  whistled  by  and  fell  on  the  boulevard  not  far  away. 
I  called  in  all  the  pupils  who  were  there,  and  we  went 
down  into  the  schoolroom.  The  teachers  arrive,  then 
more  children  in  rapid  succession,  all  out  of  breath;  it 
seems  that  the  shell  landed  in  the  centre  of  the  square. 


SCHOOL  CHILDREN  OF  FRANCE       203 

The  lessons  continue  nevertheless,  although  sometimes 
disturbed  by  the  hissing  of  shells  passing  over.  About 
ten  o'clock  the  reports  come  nearer;  I  order  the  writing 
lesson  stopped  and  collect  the  children  on  the  staircase. 
At  two  o'clock,  before  dismissing  them,  I  go  up  to  the 
store-room.  What  a  tumult!  Courageous  parents  come 
running  in  to  fetch  their  children,  and  I  learn  from  them 
that  bombs  are  falling  on  the  boulevards  and  the  streets 
nearby.  That  is  just  where  most  of  our  pupils  live. 
What  is  to  be  done?  I  turn  over  to  the  parents  the  chil 
dren  they  have  come  for,  but  those  who  are  left  behind 
are  unhappy :  they  cry,  and  want  to  go  home.  At  last  we 
persuade  them  to  be  patient  and  comfort  them  as  best 
we  can. 

"How  slowly  the  hands  move!  Half -past  eleven  — 
twelve !  We  are  still  waiting  for  the  end  of  this  horrible 
bombardment;  we  can't  think  of  leaving.  Half-past 
twelve  —  a  quarter  to  one.  How  long  shall  we  be  obliged 
to  stay  like  this?  There  are  a  hundred  or  more  children 
here,  of  all  ages  —  and  there  is  no  way  to  keep  them 
quiet.  The  larger  ones,  very  excited,  say  insistently, 
'  Madame,  I  want  to  go  home,  I  'm  too  hungry.  We  've 
seen  many  worse  ones  than  this,  madame.'  The  little 
children,  too,  are  over-excited  and  nervous;  I  must  put 
an  end  to  it;  in  any  case  the  bombardment  is  grow 
ing  less  and  less  violent.  I  have  the  children  arranged  in 
groups,  according  to  the  streets  where  they  live,  and 
place  each  teacher  in  charge  of  those  who  live  in  her 
neighborhood ;  I  myself  take  the  children  from  the  Bar- 
batre  and  the  neighboring  streets.  I  tell  them  all  that 
there  will  be  no  afternoon  session,  and  give  the  following 
instructions :  not  on  any  condition  to  go  along  the  boule- 


204       SCHOOL  CHILDREN  OF  FRANCE 

vard;  to  go  as  fast  as  possible  through  the  streets,  and  if 
they  hear  the  hissing  of  a  shell  to  lie  flat  on  the  ground. 
The  groups  are  to  start  five  minutes  apart.  Our  children 
are  calmer  now;  they  understand  me,  and,  in  general, 
they  realize  the  gravity  of  the  situation. 

"I  set  out  with  my  group.  I  cannot  deny  that  I  am  a 
bit  anxious.  The  children  press  close  to  my  side,  hang  on 
my  arms,  and  stoop  over  from  time  to  time  when  the 
shells  whistle  in  the  distance.  Luckily,  I  get  rid  of  them 
one  by  one  alt  along  the  road,  and  on  rue  Montlaurent  I 
deliver  the  last  ones  at  their  homes.  What  a  relief! 

"Friday,  January  7,  1916.  —  Present,  255  pupils. 
To-day  the  session  has  been  far  out  of  the  ordinary 
course.  When  they  enter  the  schoolroom  the  children's 
curiosity  is  keenly  aroused  by  two  large  chests.  About 
half -past  ten  I  have  the  chests  opened  and  take  out  a 
number  of  little  blue,  green,  and  yellow  bags  which  are 
placed  on  my  desk  in  packages.  All  eyes  question  me. 
The  children  have  seen  similar  bags  hanging  from  the 
soldiers'  belts,  but  surely  these  can't  be  for  them!  I  dis 
tribute  them  among  the  children,  who  open  them  and 
find  in  each  a  pad  and  a  pair  of  glasses.  'Why,  yes! 
that 's  just  what  the  soldiers  have ! '  They  exchange  con 
jectures  and  are  unanimous  in  saying  that  the  pad  has  a 
very  bad  smell.  'But  how  can  we  use  the  things?'  — 
'Attention!  all  watch  closely.  See:  I  put  the  pad  over 
my  nose  and  mouth;  I  pass  the  strings  behind  my  head, 
bring  them  round  in  front,  and  tie  them  tight.  Then  I 
put  the  glasses  on  over  it.' 

"After  this  there  is  little  of  the  aspect  of  a  school. 
The  pupils  laugh  frantically  and  climb  on  the  tables  to 
see  me  better.  I  must  look  very  comical  for  even  the 


206       SCHOOL   CHILDREN  OF  FRANCE 

teachers  have  hard  work  to  keep  sober.  I  remove  my 
mask.  'It's  your  turn  now,  my  dears;  come  on.'  And 
they  go  through  the  performance  several  times,  to  be 
able  to  execute  it  well  and  quickly. 

"Monday,  March  27.  —  The  session  begins  as  usual,  at 
half -past  eight;  I  am  giving  a  lesson  in  oral  arithmetic, 
when  all  of  a  sudden  my  assistants,  who  have  remained 
above,  come  rushing  down  to  the  stairway,  crying, 
'  The  bombardment  is  close  by ! '  -  '  Bring  your  children 
down  instantly,'  is  my  reply.  I  am  not  greatly  excited 
because  of  the  frequency  of  the  bombardments,  which 
very  seldom  reached  the  school.  But  suddenly  a  terrific 
noise  deafens  us:  two  shells  have  fallen  on  a  house  at  the 
corner  of  the  square,  close  by.  The  little  ones  begin  to 
tremble  and  cry.  Aided  by  my  teachers,  I  quickly  form 
them  in  groups  —  encouraging  them  the  while  —  in  or 
der  to  take  them  down  into  the  cellar.  We  have  hardly 
begun  to  go  down  when  we  hear  above  our  heads  a  tre 
mendous  crash,  mingled  with  the  noise  of  shattered  glass. 
Another  shell  has  fallen  on  the  building,  penetrating  the 
first  two  concrete  layers  and  smashing  all  the  windows. 
The  children  who  are  a  little  way  behind  are  terrified 
and  begin  to  shriek;  some  soldiers  who  have  taken  refuge 
with  us  take  them  in  their  arms  and  quickly  carry  them 
down.  The  older  ones,  whom  I  am  leading,  remain  per 
fectly  calm;  they  go  down  quietly.  Below  we  gather 
them  all  about  us  and  comfort  the  most  timid.  When 
they  see  that  they  are  safe,  they  soon  grow  quiet.  But  a 
few  small  girls  keep  on  sobbing.  I  go  up  to  them.  'You 
must  n't  cry  any  more:  you're  out  of  danger  now.'  But 
holding  me,  one  by  the  apron,  another  by  the  hand,  they 
say,  'Mamma  will  be  killed,  madame!  there  is  n't  any 


SCHOOL   CHILDREN  OF  FRANCE       207 

cellar  in  our  house.' -- 'Papa  was  working  in  the 
square,  madame!  Suppose  he  didn't  have  time  to  run 
away?'-  -'Don't  be  afraid,  children,'  I  reply,  kissing 
them;  'your  papa  and  your  mamma  won't  be  killed; 
they  will  be  able  to  reach  some  safe  place.  Your  mamma 
will  come  to  fetch  you  in  a  moment;  it  will  soon  be  all 
over.'  My  assistants  meanwhile  are  comforting  others. 
"  Our  stay  in  the  cellar  lasted  two  hours.  It  seemed  to 
us  extraordinarily  long.  So  far  as  most  of  the  children 
were  concerned,  it  was  a  surprise;  and  it  ended  by  amus 
ing  them;  they  would  have  liked  to  go  upstairs  to  see 
what  was  going  on.  Some  of  them  talked  with  the  sol 
diers,  who  gave  them  bread  which  they  calmly  set  about 
eating.  At  last,  about  twenty  minutes  past  two,  hearing 
nothing  more,  I  went  to  make  sure  that  the  danger  was 
at  an  end.  Some  parents  hurried  in  to  get  their  children, 
and  thanked  us  for  taking  them  where  they  were  safe. 
The  pupils  quickly  came  up  two  by  two,  each  of  the 
older  ones  leading  a  little  one.  I  formed  them  in  line, 
and  each  of  us  took  charge  of  a  group.  Then  I  dis 
missed  them  for  the  afternoon." 

The  result  of  the  investigations  that  I  made  shows 
that  during  the  thirty  months  that  the  schools  were 
open,  thirty-seven  shells  fell  upon  the  buildings  and  two 
of  them  went  through  the  roof,  —  luckily  while  the 
children  were  absent,  —  into  the  rooms  where  the  ses 
sions  were  held  every  day.  More  than  a  thousand  pro 
jectiles  of  all  calibres  fell  within  a  space  of  less  than  100 
metres  from  the  schools,  in  which  space  they  killed  sev 
enty-six  grown  persons  and  eight  children  who  never  at 
tended  school.  Not  a  single  teacher  or  pupil  was  wounded. 


THE  DESERTED  PASTURE 

BY   BLISS    CARMAN 

I  LOVE  the  stony  pasture 

That  no  one  else  will  have. 

The  old  gray  rocks  so  friendly  seem, 

So  durable  and  brave. 

In  tranquil  contemplation 
It  watches  through  the  year, 
Seeing  the  frosty  stars  arise, 
The  slender  moons  appear. 

Its  music  is  the  rain-wind, 
Its  choristers  the  birds, 
And  there  are  secrets  in  its  heart 
Too  wonderful  for  words. 

It  keeps  the  bright-eyed  creatures 
That  play  about  its  walls, 
Though  long  ago  its  milking  herds 
Were  banished  from  their  stalls. 

Only  the  children  come  there, 
For  buttercups  in  May, 
Or  nuts  in  autumn,  where  it  lies 
Dreaming  the  hours  away. 


210  THE   DESERTED   PASTURE 

Long  since  its  strength  was  given 
To  making  good  increase, 
And  now  its  soul  is  turned  again 
To  beauty  and  to  peace. 

There  in  the  early  springtime 
The  violets  are  blue, 
The  adder-tongues  in  coats  of  gold 
Are  garmented  anew. 

There  bayberry  and  aster 

Are  crowded  on  its  floors, 

When  marching  summer  halts  to  praise 

The  Lord  of  Out-of-doors. 

And  there  October  passes 
In  gorgeous  livery  — 
In  purple  ash,  and  crimson  oak, 
And  golden  tulip  tree. 

And  when  the  winds  of  winter 
Their  bugle  blasts  begin, 
I  watch  the  white  battalions  come 
To  pitch  their  tents  therein. 


IN  THE   TRENCHES 

BY   F.    WHITMORE 

WE  lay  among  the  rifle-pits,  above  our  low  heads  streaming 
Bullets,  like  sleet,  with  now  and  then,  near  by,  the  vicious 

screaming 
Of  shells  that  made  us  hold  our  breath,  till  each  had  burst 

and  blasted 
Its  ghastly  circle,  hid  in  smoke  —  here,  there  —  and  while 

it  lasted, 
That  murderous  fume  and  fusillade,  our  hearts  were  in  our 

throats ; 

For  hell  let  loose  about  us  raged,  and  in  those  muddy  moats 
The  rain  that  fell  was  shot  and  shell,  the  plash  it  made  was 

red, 
And  all  about  the  long  redoubt  was  garrisoned  with  dead. 

Upon  my  right  a  veteran  in  rasping  whispers  swore; 

Upon  my  left  an  Irish  lad  breathed  Ave  Marys  o'er. 

And  I?  —  Well,  well,  I  won't  aver  my  lips  no  murmur 
made; 

A  prayer,  long  silent,  half  forgot,  stirred  them;  but  some 
thing  stayed 

The  sacred  words;  I  locked  my  lips.  "No,  no,  ah  no!"  I 
thought ; 

Not  now!  I'll  wait,  nor  sue  for  what,  unharmed,  I  left  un 
sought  ! 

Not  so  I  '11  pray,  let  come  what  may ! "  I  held  my  heart  and 
lips, 

And,  nerved  afresh,  I  gripped  my  rifle-stock  —  when  — 
something  clips 


IN  THE   TRENCHES 

Smartly  ray  temple  (that  long  lock  conceals  the  bullet's 

mark) , 
And,  sharply  stinging,  with  ears  loud-ringing,  I  dropped 

into  the  dark. 

When  I  awoke,  the  sultry  smoke  was  gone,  and  over  me, 

Faint  as  a  cloud  against  the  air,  a  sweet  face  tenderly, 

A   mother-woman's   face,   was    bending,   in   the   evening 

beam  — 
That  touched  her  good  gray  hair  to  gold  —  with  eyes  that 

made  me  seem, 
'Mid  all  the  fever's  burning,  wholly  safe  —  since  they  were 

there. 
Well,  —  oddly,  sir,  —  in  that  dim  peace,  I  let  my  lips 

breathe  prayer. 


THE  LAME   PRIEST 

BY    S.    CARLTON 

IF  the  air  had  not  been  December's,  I  should  have 
said  there  was  balm  in  it.  Balm  there  was,  to  me,  in  the 
sight  of  the  road  before  me.  The  first  snow  of  winter 
had  been  falling  for  an  hour  or  more;  the  barren  hill  was 
white  with  it.  What  wind  there  was  was  behind  me,  and 
I  stopped  to  look  my  fill. 

,  The  long  slope  stretched  up  till  it  met  the  sky,  the 
softly  rounded  white  of  it  melting  into  the  gray  clouds 
-  the  dove-brown  clouds  —  that  touched  the  summit, 
brooding,  infinitely  gentle.  From  my  feet  led  the  track, 
sheer  white,  where  old  infrequent  wheels  had  marked 
two  channels  for  the  snow  to  lie;  in  the  middle  a  clear 
filmy  brown,  —  not  the  shadow  of  a  color,  but  the  light 
of  one;  and  the  gray  and  white  and  brown  of  it  all  was 
veiled  and  strange  with  the  blue-gray  mist  of  falling 
snow.  So  quiet,  so  kind,  it  fell,  I  could  not  move  for  look 
ing  at  it,  though  I  was  not  halfway  home. 

My  eyes  are  not  very  good.  I  could  not  tell  what 
made  that  brown  light  in  the  middle  of  the  track  till  I 
was  on  it,  and  saw  it  was.  only  grass  standing  above  the 
snow;  tall,  thin,  feathery  autumn  grass,  dry  and  with 
ered.  It  was  so  beautiful  I  was  sorry  to  walk  on  it. 

I  stood  looking  down  at  it,  and  then,  because  I  had  to 
get  on,  lifted  my  eyes  to  the  skyline.  There  was  some 
thing  black  there,  very  big  against  the  low  sky;  very 


214  THE   LAME   PRIEST 

» 

swift,  too,  on  its  feet,  for  I  had  scarcely  wondered  what 
it  was  before  it  had  come  so  close  that  I  saw  it  was  a  man, 
a  priest  in  his  black  soutane.  I  never  saw  any  man  who 
moved  so  fast  without  running.  He  was  close  to  me,  at 
my  side,  passing  me  even  as  I  thought  it. 

"You  are  hurried,  father,"  said  I,  meaning  to  be  civil. 

I  see  few  persons  in  my  house,  twelve  miles  from  the 
settlement,  and  I  had  my  curiosity  to  know  where  this 
strange  priest  was  going.  For  he  was  a  stranger. 

"To  the  churchyard,  my  brother  —  to  the  church 
yard,"  he  answered,  in  a  chanting  voice,  yet  not  the 
chanting  you  hear  in  churches.  He  was  past  me  as  he 
spoke  —  five  yards  past  me  down  the  hill. 

The  churchyard!  Yes,  there  was  a  burying.  Young 
John  Noel  was  dead  these  three  days.  I  heard  that  in 
the  village. 

"This  priest  will  be  late,"  I  thought,  wondering  why 
young  John  must  have  two  priests  to  bury  him.  Father 
Moore  was  enough  for  everyone  else.  And  then  I  won 
dered  why  he  had  called  me  "brother." 

I  turned  to  watch  him  down  the  hill,  and  saw  what  I 
had  not  seen  before.  The  man  was  lame.  His  left  foot 
hirpled,  either  in  trick  or  infirmity.  In  the  shallow  snow 
his  track  lay  black  and  uneven  where  the  sound  foot 
had  taken  the  weight.  I  do  not  know  why,  but  that 
black  track  had  a  desolate  look  on  the  white  ground,  and 
the  black  priest  hurrying  down  the  hill  looked  desolate, 
too.  There  was  something  infinitely  lonely,  infinitely 
pathetic  in  that  scurrying  figure,  indistinct  through  the 
falling  snow. 

I  had  grown  chilled  standing,  and  it  made  me  shiver; 
or  else  it  was  the  memory  of  the  gaunt  face,  the  eyes  that 


THE  LAME   PRIEST  215 

did  not  look  at  me,  the  incredible,  swift  lameness  of  the 
strange  priest.  However  it  was,  virtue  had  gone  from 
me.  I  went  on  to  the  top  of  the  hill  without  much  spirit, 
and  into  the  woods.  And  in  the  woods  the  kindliness 
had  gone  from  the  snowfall.  The  familiar  rocks  and 
stumps  were  unfamiliar,  threatening.  Half  a  dozen 
times  I  wondered  what  a  certain  thing  could  be  that 
crouched  before  me  in  the  dusk,  only  to  find  it  a  rotten 
log,  a  boulder  in  the  bare  bushes.  Whether  I  hurried 
faster  than  I  knew,  for  that  unfriendliness  around  me, 
I  did  not  trouble  to  think,  but  I  was  in  a  wringing  sweat 
when  I  came  out  at  my  own  clearing.  As  I  crossed  it  to 
my  door  something  startled  me  —  what,  I  do  not  know. 
It  was  only  a  faint  sound,  far  off,  unknown,  unrecog 
nizable,  but  unpleasing.  I  forgot  the  door  was  latched 
(I  leave  my  house  by  the  window  when  I  go  out  for  the 
day)  and  pushed  it  sharply.  It  gave  to  my  hand.  There 
was  no  stranger  inside,  at  least.  An  old  Indian  sat  by 
the  smouldering  fire,  with  my  dog  at  his  feet. 

"Andrew!"  said  I.   "Is  anything  wrong?" 

I  had  it  always  in  my  mind,  when  he  came  unexpect 
edly,  that  his  wife  might  be  dead.  She  had  been  smoking 
her  pipe  and  dying  these  ten  years  back. 

"I  don'  know."  The  old  man  smiled  as  he  carefully 
shut  and  barred  the  door  I  had  left  ajar.  "He  want  to 
bacco,  so  I  come.  You  good  man  to  me.  You  not  home; 
I  wait  and  make  supper;  my  meat."  He  nodded  proudly 
at  the  dull  embers,  and  I  saw  he  had  an  open  pot  on 
them,  with  a  hacked-off  joint  of  moose  meat.  "I  make 
him  stew." 

He  had  done  the  same  thing  before,  a  sort  of  tacit  pay 
ment  for  the  tobacco  he  wanted.  I  was  glad  to  see  him, 


216  THE   LAME   PRIEST 

for  I  was  so  hot  and  tired  from  my  walk  home  that  I 
knew  I  must  be  getting  old  very  fast.  It  is  not  good  to 
sit  alone  in  a  shack  of  a  winter's  night  and  know  you  are 
getting  old  very  fast. 

When  there  was  no  more  moose  meat  we  drew  to  the 
fire.  Outside  the  wind  had  risen  full  of  a  queer  wailing 
that  sounded  something  like  the  cry  of  a  loon.  I  saw  An 
drew  was  not  ready  to  start  for  home,  though  he  had  his 
hat  on  his  head,  and  I  realized  I  had  not  got  out  the  to 
bacco.  But  when  I  put  it  on  the  table  he  let  it  lie. 

"You  keep  me  here  to-night?"  he  asked,  without  a 
smile,  almost  anxiously.  "Bad  night,  to-night.  Too 
long  way  home." 

I  was  pleased  enough,  but  I  asked  if  the  old  woman 
would  be  lonely. 

"He  get  tobacco  to-morrow."  (Andrew  had  but  the 
masculine  third  person  singular;  and  why  have  more, 
when  that  serves?)  "Girl  with  him  when  I  come.  To 
morrow  — 

He  listened  for  an  instant  to  the  wind,  stared  into  the 
fire,  and  threw  so  mighty  a  bark-covered  log  on  it  that 
the  flames  flew  up  the  chimney, 

"Red  deer  come  back  to  this  country!"  exclaimed  he 
irrelevantly.  "Come  down  from  Maine.  Wolves  come 
back,  too,  over  the  north  ice.  I  s'pose  smell  'em?  I  don' 
know." 

I  nodded.  I  knew  both  things,  having  nothing  but 
such  things  to  know  in  the  corner  of  God's  world  I  call 
my  own. 

Andrew  filled  his  pipe.  If  I  had  not  been  used  to  him, 
I  could  never  have  seen  his  eyes  were  not  on  it,  but  on 
me. 


THE   LAME   PRIEST  217 

"  To-morrow,"  he  harked  back  abruptly,  "  we  go  'way. 
Break  up  here;  go  down  Lake  Mooin." 

"Why?"  I  was  astounded.  He  had  not  shifted  camp 
for  years. 

"I  say  red  deer  back.  Not  good  here  any  more." 

"  But  —  '  I  wondered  for  half  a  minute  if  he  could  be 
afraid  of  the  few  stray  wolves  which  had  certainly  come, 
from  Heaven  knew  how  far,  the  winter  before.  But  I 
knew  that  was  nonsense.  It  must  be  something  about 
the  deer.  How  was  I  to  know  what  his  mind  got  out  of 
them? 

"No  good,"  he  repeated.  He  lifted  his  long  brown 
hand  solemnly,  —  "No  good  here.  You  come  too." 

I  laughed.  "I'm  too  old!  Andrew,  who  was  the 
strange  priest  I  met  to-day  crossing  the  upland  farm?" 

"Father  Moore  —  no?   Father  Underbill?" 

"No.  Thin,  tired-looking,  lame." 

"Lame!  Drag  leg?  Hurry?  "  I  had  never  seen  him  so 
excited,  never  seen  him  stop  in  full  career  as  now.  "I 
don'  know."  It  was  a  different  man  speaking.  "  Strange 
priest,  not  belong  here.  You  come  Lake  Mooin  with 
me." 

"Tell  me  about  the  priest  first"  -  though  I  knew  it 
was  useless  as  I  ordered  it. 

He  spat  into  the  fire.  "Lame  dog,  lame  woman,  lame 
priest  —  all  no  good!"  said  he.  "What  time  late  you 
sit  up  here?" 

Not  late  that  night,  assuredly.  I  was  more  tired  than 
I  wanted  to  own.  But  long  after  I  had  gone  to  my  bunk 
in  the  corner  I  saw  Andrew's  wrinkled  face  listening 
in  the  firelight.  He  played  with  something  in  his  hand, 
and  I  knew  there  was  that  in  his  mind  which  he  would 


218  THE   LAME  PRIEST 

not  say.  The  wind  had  died  away;  there  was  no  more 
loon-calling,  or  whatever  it  was.  I  fell  asleep  to  the 
sound  of  the  fire,  the  soft  pat  of  snow  on  the  window. 
But  the  straight  old  figure  in  my  chair  sat  rigid,  rigid. 

I  opened  my  eyes  to  broad,  dull  daylight.  Andrew 
and  the  tobacco  were  gone.  But  on  the  table  was  some 
thing  I  did  not  see  till  I  was  setting  my  breakfast  there : 
three  bits  of  twig,  two  uprights  and  a  crosspiece;  a  lake- 
shore  pebble;  a  bit  of  charred  wood.  I  supposed  it  was 
something  about  coming  back  from  Lake  Mooin  to  sit 
by  my  fire  again,  and  I  swept  the  picture-writing  away 
as  I  put  down  my  teapot.  Afterwards  I  was  glad. 

I  began  to  wonder  if  it  would  ever  stop  snowing.  An 
drew's  track  from  my  door  was  filled  up  already.  I  sat 
down  to  my  fly -tying  and  my  books,  with  a  pipe  in  my 
mouth  and  an  old  tune  at  my  heart,  when  I  heard  a  hare 
shriek  out.  I  will  have  no  traps  on  my  grant,  —  a  beg 
garly  hundred  acres,  not  cleared,  and  never  will  be;  I 
have  no  farmer  blood,  —  and  for  a  moment  I  distrusted 
Andrew.  I  put  on  my  boots  and  went  out. 

The  dog  plumped  into  the  woods  ahead  of  me,  and 
came  back.  The  hare  shrieked  again,  and  was  cut  off  in 
mid-cry. 

"Indian  is  Indian!"  said  I  savagely.  "Andrew!" 

But  no  one  answered. 

The  dog  fell  behind  me,  treading  in  my  steps. 

In  the  thick  spruces  there  was  nothing;  nothing  in  the 
opener  hardwood,  till  I  came  out  on  a  clear  place  under 
a  big  tree,  with  the  snow  falling  over  into  my  boot-legs. 
There,  stooping  in  the  snow,  with  his  back  to  me,  was  a 
man  —  the  priest  of  yesterday.  Priest  or  no  priest,  I 
would  not  have  it;  and  I  said  so. 


THE   LAME   PRIEST  219 

He  smiled  tightly,  his  soutane  gathered  up  around 
him. 

"  I  do  not  snare.  Look ! "  He  moved  aside,  and  I  saw 
the  bloody  snow,  the  dead  hare.  "Something  must  have 
killed  it  and  been  frightened  away.  It  is  very  odd." 

He  looked  round  him,  as  I  did,  for  the  fox  or  wild-cat 
tracks  that  were  not  there.  Except  for  my  boot-prints 
from  my  side,  and  his  uneven  track  from  his,  there  was 
not  a  mark  on  the  snow.  It  might  have  been  a  wild-cat 
which  jumped  to  some  tree,  but  even  so  it  was  queer. 

"Very  odd,"  he  said  again.  "  Will  you  have  the  hare?  " 

I  shook  my  head.  I  had  no  fancy  for  it. 

"It  is  good  meat." 

I  had  turned  to  see  where  my  dog  had  gone,  but  I 
looked  back  at  the  sound  of  his  voice,  and  was  ashamed. 
Pinched,  tired,  bedraggled,  he  held  up  the  hare;  and  his 
eyes  were  sharp  with  hunger. 

I  looked  for  no  more  phantom  tracks;  I  forgot  he  had 
sinned  about  the  hare;  I  was  ashamed  that  I,  well  fed, 
had  shamed  him,  empty,  by  wondering  foolishly  about 
wild  cats.  Yet  even  so  I  had  less  fancy  for  that  hare 
than  ever. 

"Let  it  lie,"  said  I.  "I  have  better  meat,  and  I  sup 
pose  the  beasts  are  hungry  as  well  as  we.  If  you  are  not 
hurried,  come  in  and  have  a  bite  with  me.  I  see  few 
strangers  out  here.  You  would  do  me  a  kindness." 

A  very  strange  look  came  on  his  face.  "A  kindness ! " 
he  exclaimed.  "I  —  do  a  kindness!" 

He  seemed  so  taken  aback  that  I  wondered  if  he  were 
not  a  little  mad.  I  do  not  like  madmen,  but  I  could  not 
turn  round  on  him. 

"You  are  off  the  track  to  anywhere,"  I  explained. 


220  THE   LAME   PRIEST 

"There  are  no  settlements  for  a  hundred  miles  back  of 
me.  If  you  come  in,  I  will  give  you  your  bearings." 

"  Off  the  track ! "  he  repeated,  almost  joyfully.  "  Yes, 
yes.  But  I  am  very  strong.  I  suppose"  -his  voice 
dragged  into  a  whisper —  "I  shall  not  be  able  to  help 
getting  back  to  a  settlement  again.  But  -  '  He  looked 
at  me  for  the  first  time,  with  considering  eyes  like  a  dog's, 
only  more  afraid,  less  gentle.  "You  are  a  good  man, 
brother,"  he  said.  "I  will  come." 

He  cast  a  shuddering  glance  at  the  hare,  and  threw  it 
behind  him.  As  I  turned  to  go  he  drifted  lamely  after 
me,  just  as  a  homeless  dog  does,  half  hope,  half  terrified 
suspicion.  But  I  fancied  he  laid  a  greedy  eye  at  the 
bloody  hare  after  he  had  turned  away  from  it. 

Somehow,  he  was  not  a  comfortable  companion,  and 
I  was  sorry  I  was  alone.  I  whistled  for  my  dog,  but  he 
had  run  home.  He  liked  neither  snow  nor  strangers.  I 
saw  his  great  square  head  in  my  bed  as  I  let  the  priest  in, 
and  I  knew  he  was  annoyed.  Dogs  are  funny  things. 

Mad  or  sane,  that  priest  ate  ravenously.  When  he 
had  finished  his  eyes  were  steadier,  though  he  started 
frightfully  when  I  dropped  some  firewood  —  started 
toward  the  door. 

"Were  you  in  time  for  the  funeral  yesterday,  father?  " 
I  asked,  to  put  him  at  his  ease. 

But  at  first  he  did  not  answer. 

"I  turned  back,"  he  said  at  last,  in  the  chanting  voice 
of  yesterday.  "  You  live  alone,  brother?  Alone,  like  me, 
in  the  wilderness?" 

I  said  yes.  I  supposed  he  was  one  of  the  Indian  priests 
who  live  alone  indeed.  He  was  no  town  priest,  for  his 
nails  were  worn  to  the  quick. 


THE   LAME   PRIEST  221 

"You  should  bar  your  door  at  night,"  he  continued 
slowly,  as  if  it  were  a  distasteful  duty.  "These  woods 
are  not  —  not  as  they  were." 

Here  was  another  warning,  the  second  in  twenty-four 
hours.  I  forgot  about  his  being  crazy. 

"I  always  bar  it."  I  answered  shortly  enough.  I  was 
tired  of  these  child's  terrors,  all  the  more  that  I  myself 
had  felt  evil  in  the  familiar  woods  only  yesterday. 

"Do  more!"  cried  the  priest.  He  stood  up,  a  taller 
man  than  I  had  thought  him,  a  gaunt,  hunted-looking 
man  in  his  shabby  black.  "Do  more!  After  nightfall 
keep  your  door  shut,  even  to  knocking;  do  not  open  it 
for  any  calling.  The  place  is  a  bad  place,  and  treach 
ery  -  '  He  stopped,  looked  at  the  table,  pointed  at 
something.  "Would  you  mind,"  said  he,  "turning 
down  that  loaf?  It  is  not  —  not  true!" 

I  saw  the  loaf  bottom  up  on  the  platter,  and  remem 
bered.  It  is  an  old  custom  of  silent  warning  that  the 
stranger  in  the  house  is  a  traitor.  But  I  had  no  one  to 
warn.  I  laughed,  and  turned  the  loaf. 

"Of  course  there  is  no  traitor." 

If  ever  I  saw  gratitude,  it  was  in  his  eyes,  yet  he  spoke 
peevishly :  "  Not  now;  but  there  might  be.  And  so  I  say 
to  you,  after  nightfall  do  not  open  your  door  —  till  the 
Indians  come  back." 

Then  he  was  an  Indian  priest.  I  wondered  why  An 
drew  had  lied  about  him. 

"What  is  this  thing"  -I  was  impatient-  "that 
you  and  they  are  afraid  of?  Look  out  there."  I  opened 
the  door  (for  the  poor  priest,  to  be  truthful,  was  not 
savory),  and  pointed  to  the  quiet  clearing,  the  soft-fall 
ing  snow,  the  fringe  of  spruces  that  were  the  vanguard 


222  THE  LAME  PRIEST 

of  the  woods.  "Look  there,  and  tell  me  what  there  is  in 
my  own  woods  that  has  not  been  there  these  twelve 
years  past!  Yet  first  an  Indian  conies  with  hints  and 
warnings,  and  then  you." 

"What  warnings?"  he  cried.  "The  Indian's,  I  mean! 
What  warnings?" 

"I  am  sure  I  do  not  know."  I  was  thoroughly  out  of 
temper;  I  was  not  always  a  quiet  old  man  in  a  lonely 
shack.  "Something  about  the -red  deer  coming  back, 
and  the  place  being  bad." 

"That  is  nonsense  about  the  red  deer,"  returned  the 
priest,  not  in  the  least  as  if  he  meant  it. 

"Nonsense  or  not,  it  seems  to  have  se,nt  the  Indians 
away." 

I  could  not  help  sounding  dry.  I  hate  these  silly 
mysteries. 

He  turned  his  back  to  me,  and  began  to  prowl  about 
the  room.  I  had  opened  my  mouth  to  speak,  when  he 
forestalled  me. 

"  You  have  been  kind  to  an  outcast  priest."  He  spoke 
plainly.  "I  tell  you  in  return  to  go  away;  I  tell  you 
earnestly.  Or  else  I  ask  you  to  promise  me  that  for  no 
reason  will  you  leave  your  house  after  dark,  or  your  door 
on  the  latch,  till  the  Indians  come  ba —  '  He  stopped  in 
the  middle  of  a  word,  the  middle  of  a  step,  his  lame  leg 
held  up  drolly.  "  What  is  that  ?" 

It  was  more  like  the  howl  of  a  wild  beast  than  a  ques 
tion,  and  I  spun  round  pretty  sharply.  The  man  was 
crazier  than  I  liked. 

"That  rubbish  of  twigs  and  stones?  The  Indian  left 
them.  They  mean  something  about  his  coming  back,  I 
suppose." 


THE   LAME   PRIEST  223 

I  could  not  see  what  he  was  making  such  a  fuss  about. 
He  stood  in  that  silly,  arrested  attitude,  and  his  lips  had 
drawn  back  from  his  teeth  in  a  kind  of  snarl.  I  stooped 
for  the  things,  and  it  was  exactly  as  if  he  snapped  at  me. 

"Let  them  be.  I  —  I  have  no  fancy  for  them.  They 
are  a  heathen  charm." 

He  backed  away  from  them,  drew  close  to  the  open 
door,  and  stood  with  a  working  face  —  the  saddest 
sight  of  fierce  and  weary  ruin,  of  effort  to  speak  kindly, 
that  ever  I  saw. 

"They're  just  a  message,"  I  began. 

"That  you  do  not  understand."  He  held  up  his  hand 
for  silence,  more  priest  and  less  madman  than  I  had  yet 
seen  him.  "I  will  tell  you  what  they  mean.  The  twigs, 
two  uprights  and  a  crosspiece,  mean  to  keep  your  door 
shut;  the  stone  is  —  the  stone  does  not  matter  —  call  it 
a  stranger;  the  charcoal"  -for  all  the  effort  he  was 
making  his  hand  fell,  and  I  thought  he  trembled  — 
"the  charcoal  —  " 

I  stooped  mechanically  to  put  the  things  as  he  de 
scribed  them,  as  Andrew  had  left  them;  but  his  cry 
checked  me. 

"Let  the  cruel  things  be!  The  charcoal  means  the 
unlucky,  the  burned-out  souls  whose  bodies  live  ac 
cursed.  No,  I  will  not  touch  them,  either.  But  do  you 
lay  them  as  you  found  them,  night  after  night,  at  your 
door,  and  —  and,"  —  he  was  fairly  grinding  his  teeth 
with  the  effort;  even  an  outcast  priest  may  feel  shame 
at  believing  in  heathenry,  —  "and  the  unlucky,  the 
unhappy,  must  pass  by." 

I  do  not  know  why  such  pity  came  on  me,  except  that 
it  is  not  right  to  see  into  the  soul  of  any  man,  and  I  knew 


224  THE   LAME   PRIEST 

the  priest  must  be  banned,  and  thought  Andrew  had 
meant  to  warn  me  against  him.  I  took  the  things,  twigs, 
stone,  and  charcoal,  and  threw  them  into  the  fire. 

"I  'd  sooner  they  came  in,"  I  said. 

But  the  strange  priest  gave  me  a  look  of  terror,  of 
agony.  I  thought  he  wrung  his  hands,  but  I  could  not 
tell.  As  if  I  had  struck  him  he  was  over  my  threshold, 
and  scurrying  away  with  his  swift  lameness  into  the 
woods  and  the  thin-falling  snow.  He  went  the  way  we 
had  come  in  the  morning,  the  way  of  the  dead  hare.  I 
could  not  help  wondering  if  he  would  take  it  with  him  if 
it  were  still  there.  I  was  sorry  I  had  not  asked  him 
where  he  was  going;  sorrier  I  had  not  filled  his  pockets 
with  food.  I  turned  to  put  away  my  map  of  the  district, 
and  it  was  gone.  He  must  have  moved  more  silently 
than  a  wolf  to  have  stolen  it,  but  stolen  it  was.  I  could 
not  grudge  it,  if  I  would  rather  have  given  it.  I  went  to 
the  bunk  to  pull  out  my  sulky  dog,  and  stood  amazed. 
Those  books  lie  which  say  dogs  do  not  sweat. 

"The  priest  certainly  had  a  bad  smell,"  I  exclaimed, 
"but  nothing  to  cause  all  this  fuss!  Come  out!" 

But  he  only  crawled  abjectly  to  the  fire,  and  presently 
lifted  his  great  head  and  howled. 

"Snow  or  no  snow,  priest  or  no  priest,"  said  I,  "we 
will  go  out  to  get  rid  of  these  vapors  ";  for  I  had  not  felt 
much  happier  with  my  guest  than  had  the  dog. 

When  we  came  back  we  had  forgotten  him;  or  —  why 
should  I  lie?  —  the  dog  had.  I  could  not  forget  his  lame 
ness,  his  poor,  fierce,  hungry  face.  I  made  a  prayer  in 
my  bed  that  night.  (I  know  it  is  not  a  devout  practice, 
but  if  the  mind  kneels  I  hold  the  body  does  not  matter, 
and  my  mind  has  been  kneeling  for  twenty  years.) 


THE  LAME  PRIEST  225 

"For  all  that  are  in  agony  and  have  none  to  pray  for 
them,  I  beseech  thee,  O  God!"  And  I  meant  the  priest, 
as  well  as  some  others. 

But,  however  it  was,  I  heard  —  I  mean  I  saw  —  no 
more  of  him.  I  had  never  heard  of  him  so  much  as  his 
name. 

Christmas  passed.  In  February  I  went  down  to  the 
village,  and  there  I  heard  what  put  the  faint  memory  of 
the  lame  man  out  of  my  head.  The  wolves  who  had  fol 
lowed  the  red  deer  were  killing,  not  deer  in  the  woods, 
but  children  in  the  settlements.  The  village  talked  of 
packs  of  wolves,  and  Heaven  knew  how  many  children. 
I  thought,  if  it  came  to  bare  truth,  there  might  have 
been  three  children  eaten,  instead  of  the  thirty  rumor 
made  them,  and  that  for  the  fabled  pack  there  probably 
stood  two  or  three  brutes,  with  a  taste  for  human  flesh, 
and  a  distaste  for  the  hard  running  of  pulling  down  a 
deer.  And  before  I  left  the  village  I  met  a  man  who 
told  the  plain  tale. 

There  had  been  ten  children  killed  or  carried  off,  but 
there  had  been  no  pack  of  wolves  concerned,  nor  even 
three  nor  two.  One  lame  wolf's  track  led  from  each 
robbed  house,  only  to  disappear  on  some  highroad. 
More  than  that,  the  few  wolves  in  the  woods  seemed  to 
fear  and  shun  the  lonely  murderer;  were  against  him  as 
much  as  the  men  who  meant  to  hunt  him  down. 

It  was  a  queer  story;  I  hardly  thought  it  held  water, 
though  the  man  who  told  it  was  no  romance-maker.  I 
left  him,  and  went  home  over  the  hard  shining  of  the 
crusted  snow,  wondering  why  the  good  God,  if  he  had 
not  meant  his  children  to  kill,  should  have  made  the 
winter  so  long  and  hard. 


226  THE  LAME  PRIEST 

Yellow  shafts  of  low  sunlight  pierced  the  woods  as  I 
threaded  them,  and  if  they  had  not  made  it  plain  that 
there  was  nothing  abroad  I  should  have  thought  I  heard 
something  padding  in  the  underbrush.  But  I  saw  noth 
ing  till  I  came  out  on  my  own  clearing,  and  there  I 
jerked  up  with  surprise. 

The  lame  priest  stood  with  his  back  to  my  window  — 
stood  on  a  patch  of  tramped  and  bloody  snow. 

"Will  you  never  learn  sense?"  he  whined  at  me. 
"This  is  no  winter  to  go  out  and  leave  your  window  un 
fastened.  If  I  had  not  happened  by,  your  dog  would  be 
dead." 

I  stared  at  him.  I  always  left  the  window  ajar,  for  the 
dog  to  go  out  and  in. 

"I  came  by,"  drawled  the  priest,  as  if  he  were  passing 
every  day,  "and  found  your  dog  out  here  with  three 
wolves  on  him.  I  —  I  beat  them  off."  He  might  speak 
calmly,  but  he  wiped  the  sweat  from  his  face.  "I  put 
him  in  by  the  window.  He  is  only  torn." 

"But  you  — "  My  wits  came  back  to  me.  I  thanked 
him  as  a  man  does  who  has  only  a  dumb  beast  to  cherish. 
"Why  did  you  not  go  in,  too?  You  must  be  frozen." 

He  shook  his  head.  "The  dog  is  afraid  of  me;  you  saw 
that,"  he  answered  simply.  "He  was  better  alone.  Be 
sides,  I  had  my  hands  full  at  the  time." 

"Are  you  hurt?" 

I  would  have  felt  his  ragged  clothes,  but  he  flinched 
away  from  me. 

"They  were  afraid,  too!"  He  gave  a  short  laugh. 
"And  now  I  must  go.  Only  be  careful.  For  all  you 
knew,  there  might  have  been  wolves  beside  you  as  you 
came.  And  you  had  no  gun." 


THE   LAME   PRIEST  227 

I  knew  now  why  he  looked  neither  cold  nor  like  a  man 
who  has  been  waiting.  He  had  made  the  windows  safe 
for  the  dog  inside,  and  run  through  the  woods  to  guard 
me.  I  was  full  of  wonder  at  the  strangeness  of  him,  and 
the  absurd  gratitude;  I  forgot  —  or  rather,  I  did  not 
speak  of  —  the  stolen  map.  I  begged  him  to  come  in  for 
the  night.  But  he  cut  me  off  in  the  middle. 

"I  am  going  a  long  way.  No,  I  will  not  take  a  gun.  I 
have  no  fear." 

"These  wolves  are  too  much ! "  I  cried  angrily.  " They 
told  me  in  the  village  that  a  lame  one  had  been  harry 
ing  the  settlements.  I  mean  a  wolf  -  '  Not  for  worlds 
would  I  have  said  anything  about  lameness  if  I  had  re 
membered  his. 

"Do  they  say  that?"  he  asked,  his  gaunt  and  fur 
rowed  face  without  expression.  "Oh,  you  need  not  mind 

me.   It  is  no  secret  that  I  —  I  too  am  lame.   Are  they 

??  ? 
~^^. 

"Sure  enough  to  mean  to  kill  him."  Somehow,  my 
tongue  faltered  over  it. 

"  So  they  ought."  He  spoke  in  his  throat.  "But  —  I 
doubt  if  they  can!"  He  straightened  himself,  looked  at 
the  sun  with  a  queer  face.  "  I  must  be  going.  You  need 
not  thank  me  —  except,  if  there  comes  one  at  night 
fall,  do  not,  for  my  memory,  let  him  in.  Good-night, 
brother." 

And,  "Good-night,  brother,"  said  I. 

He  turned,  and  drifted  lamely  out  of  the  clearing.  He 
was  out  of  my  sight  as  quickly  as  if  he  had  gone  into  the 
ground.  It  was  true  about  the  wolves :  there  were  their 
three  tracks,  and  the  priest's  tracks  running  to  the  place 
where  they  had  my  dog  down.  If,  remembering  the  hare 


228  THE  LAME   PRIEST 

I  had  had  other  thoughts,  I  was  ashamed  of  them.  I  was 
sorry  I  had  not  asked  in  the  village  about  this  strange 
man  who  beat  off  wolves  with  a  stick;  but  I  had,  unfor 
tunately,  not  known  it  in  the  village. 

I  was  to  know.  Oh,  I  was  to  know! 

It  may  have  been  a  month  after  —  it  was  hear  sun 
set  of  a  bitter  day  —  when  I  saw  the  lame  priest  again. 

Lame  indeed.  Bent  double  as  if  with  agony,  limping 
horribly,  the  sweat  on  his  white  face,  he  stumbled  to  my 
door.  His  hand  was  at  his  side;  there  was  a  dry  blood 
stain  round  his  mouth;  yet  even  while  he  had  to  lean 
against  the  doorpost  he  would  not  let  me  within  arm 
reach  of  him,  but  edged  away. 

"  Come  in,  man."  I  was  appalled.  "  Come  in.  You  — 
are  you  hurt?"  I  thought  I  saw  blood  on  his  soutane, 
which  was  in  flinders. 

He  shook  his  head.  Like  a  man  whose  minutes  are 
numbered,  he  looked  at  the  sun;  and,  like  a  man  whose 
minutes  are  numbered,  could  not  hurry  his  speech. 

"Not  I,"  he  said  at  last.  "But  there  is  a  poor  beast 
out  there,"  nodding  vaguely,  "a  —  a  dog,  that  has 
been  wounded.  I  —  I  want  some  rags  to  tie  up  the 
wound,  a  blanket  to  put  over  him.  I  cannot  leave  him 
in  his  —  his  last  hour." 

"You  can't  go.  I'll  put  him  out  of  his  misery:  that 
will  be  better  than  blankets." 

"It  might,"  muttered  he,  "it  might,  if  you  could! 
But  I  must  go." 

I  said  I  would  go,  too.  But  at  that  he  seemed  to  lose 
all  control  of  himself,  and  snarled  out  at  me. 

"Stay  at  home.  I  will  not  have  you.  Hurry.  Get  me 
the  things." 


THE   LAME   PRIEST  229 

His  eyes  —  and,  on  my  soul,  I  thought  death  was 
glazing  them  —  were  on  the  sinking  sun  when  I  came 
out  again,  and  for  the  first  time  he  did  not  edge  away 
from  me.  I  should  have  known  without  telling  that  he 
had  been  caring  for  some  animal  by  the  smell  of  his 
clothes. 

"My  brother  that  I  have  treated  brotherly,  as  you 
me,"  he  said,  "whether  I  come  back  this  night  or  not, 
keep  your  door  shut.  Do  not  come  out  —  if  I  had 
strength  to  kneel,  I  would  kneel  to  you  —  for  any  calling. 
And  I,  I  that  ask  you  have  loved  you  well;  I  have  tried 
to  serve  you,  except"  (he  had  no  pause,  no  awkward 
ness)  "in  the  matter  of  that  map;  but  you  had  burned 
the  heathen  charm,  and  I  had  to  find  a  way  to  keep  far 
off  from  you.  I  am  —  I  am  a  driven  man!" 

"  There  will  be  no  calling."  I  was  puzzled  and  despair 
ing.  "There  has  been  none  of  that  loon-crying,  or  what 
ever  it  was,  since  the  night  I  first  met  you.  If  you  would 
treat  me  as  a  brother,  come  back  to  my  house  and  sleep. 
I  will  not  hurt  your  wounded  dog,"  though  even  then  I 
knew  it  was  no  dog. 

"  I  treat  you  as  I  know  best,"  he  answered  passionate 
ly.  "But  if  in  the  morning  I  do  not  come  —  '  He  seized 
the  blanket,  the  rags ;  bounded  from  me  in  the  last  rays 
of  sunlight,  dragging  his  burden  in  the  snow.  As  he  van 
ished  with  his  swift,  incredible  lameness,  his  voice  came 
back  high  and  shrill:  "If  I  do  not  come  in  the  morning, 
come  out  and  give  —  give  my  dog  burial.  For  the  love 
of"  -  he  was  screaming  —  "for  the  love  I  bore  you  - 
Christian  burial!" 

If  I  had  not  stayed  to  shut  the  door,  I  should  not  have 
lost  him.  Until  dark  I  called,  I  beat  every  inch  of  cover. 


230  THE   LAME  PRIEST 

All  the  time  I  had  a  feeling  that  he  was  near  and  evading 
me,  and  at  last  I  stopped  looking  for  him.  For  all  I  knew 
he  might  have  a  camp  somewhere;  and  camp  or  none,  he 
had  said  pretty  plainly  he  did  not  want  me.  I  went 
home,  angry  and  baffled. 

It  was  a  freezing  night.  The  very  moon  looked  fierce 
with  cold.  The  shack  snapped  with  frost  as  I  sat  down 
to  the  supper  I  could  not  eat  for  the  thought  of  the  poor 
soul  outside;  and  as  I  sat  I  heard  a  sound,  a  soft,  implor 
ing  call,  —  the  same,  only  nearer  and  more  insistent,  as 
the  cry  on  the  wind  the  night  after  I  first  saw  the  priest. 
I  was  at  the  door,  when  something  stopped  me.  I  do  not 
exaggerate  when  I  say  the  mad  priest's  voice  was  in  my 
ears :  "  If  there  comes  one  to  your  door  after  nightfall,  do 
not  let  him  in.  Do  not  open  for  any  crying.  //  I  had 
strength  to  kneel,  I  would  kneel  to  you." 

I  do  not  think  any  pen  on  earth  could  put  down  the 
entreaty  of  that  miserable  voice,  but  even  remembering 
it  I  would  have  disregarded  it,  if,  before  I  could  so  much 
as  draw  breath,  that  soft  calling  had  not  broken  into  a 
great  ravening  howl,  bestial,  full  of  malice.  For  a  mo 
ment  I  thought  the  priest  had  come  back  raving  mad;  I 
thought  silly  thoughts  of  my  cellar  and  my  medicine 
chest;  but  as  I  turned  for  my  knitted  sash  to  tie  him 
with,  the  horrid  howl  came  again,  and  I  knew  it  was  no 
man,  but  a  beast.  Or  I  think  that  is  a  lie.  I  knew  noth 
ing,  except  that  outside  was  something  more  horrible 
than  I  had  ever  dreamed  of,  and  that  I  could  not  open 
my  door. 

I  did  go  to  the  window;  I  put  a  light  there  for  the 
priest  to  see,  if  he  came;  but  I  did  no  more.  That  very 
day  I  had  said,  "There  will  be  no  more  calling,"  and 


THE  LAME  PRIEST  231 

here,  in  my  sober  senses,  stood  and  sweated  because  my 
words  were  turned  into  a  lie. 

There  seemed  to  be  two  voices,  yet  I  knew  it  was  but 
one.  First  would  come  the  soft  wailing,  with  the  strange 
drawing  in  it.  There  was  more  terror  for  me  in  that  than 
in  the  furious  snarl  to  which  it  always  changed;  for  while 
it  was  imploring  it  was  all  I  could  do  not  to  let  in  the  one 
who  cried  out  there.  Just  as  I  could  withstand  no  longer 
the  ravening  malice  of  the  second  cry  would  stop  me 
short.  It  was  as  if  one  called  and  one  forbade  me.  But  I 
knew  there  were  no  two  things  outside. 

I  may  as  well  set  down  my  shame  and  be  done.  I  was 
afraid.  I  stood  holding  my  frantic  dog,  and  dared  not 
look  at  the  unshuttered  window,  lest  I  should  see  I 
knew  not  what  inhuman  face  looking  at  me  through 
the  frail  pane.  If  I  had  had  the  heathen  charm,  I 
should  have  fallen  to  the  cowardice  of  using  it. 

It  may  have  been  ten  minutes  that  I  stood  with  frozen 
blood.  All  I  am  sure  of  is  that  I  came  to  my  senses  with 
a  great  start,  remembering  the  defenseless  priest  outside. 
I  shut  up  my  dog,  took  my  gun,  opened  my  door  in  a 
fury,  and  —  did  not  shoot. 

Not  ten  yards  from  me  a  wolf  crouched  in  the  snow, 
a  dark  and  lonely  thing.  My  gun  was  in  my  shoulder, 
but  as  he  came  at  me  the  sound  that  broke  from  his 
throat  loosened  my  arm.  It  was  human.  There  is  no 
other  word  for  it.  As  I  stood,  sick  and  stupid,  the  poor 
brute  stopped  his  rush  with  a  great  slither  in  the  snow 
that  was  black  with  his  blood  in  the  moonlight,  and  ran, 
-  ran  terribly,  lamely,  from  my  sight,  —  but  not  be 
fore  I  had  seen  a  wide  white  bandage  bound  round  his 
gray-black  back  and  breast. 


232  THE  LAME  PRIEST 

"The  priest's  dog!"  I  said.  I  thought  a  hundred 
things,  and  dared  not  meddle  with  what  I  did  not  under 
stand. 

I  searched  as  best  I  might  for  what  I  knew  I  should 
not  find  —  searched  till  the  dawn  broke  in  a  lurid  sky ; 
and  under  that  crimson  light  I  found  the  man  I  had 
called  brother  on  the  crimson  snow.  And  as  I  hope  to 
die  in  a  house  and  in  my  bed,  my  rags  I  gave  for  the  dy 
ing  beast  were  round  his  breast,  my  blanket  huddled  at 
his  hand.  But  his  face,  as  I  looked  on  him,  I  should  not 
have  known,  for  it  was  young.  I  put  down  my  loaded 
gun,  that  I  was  glad  was  loaded  still,  and  I  carried  the 
dead  home.  I  saw  no  wounded  wolf  nor  the  trace  of  one, 
except  the  long  track  from  my  door  to  the  priest's  body, 
and  that  was  marked  by  neither  teeth  nor  claws,  but, 
under  my  rags,  with  bullets. 

Well,  he  had  his  Christian  burial!  —  though  Father 
Moore,  good,  smooth  man,  would  not  hear  my  tale. 

The  dead  priest  had  been  outcast  by  his  own  will,  not 
the  Church's;  had  roamed  the  country  for  a  thousand 
miles,  a  thing  afraid  and  a  thing  of  fear.  And  now  some 
one  had  killed  him,  perhaps  by  mistake. 

"  Who  knows?  "  finished  Father  Moore  softly.  "  Who 
knows?  But  I  will  have  no  hue  and  cry  made  about  it. 
He  was  once,  at  least,  a  servant  of  God,  and  these,"  — • 
he  glanced  at  the  queer-looking  bullets  that  had  fallen 
from  the  dead  man's  side  as  I  made  him  ready  for  burial, 
—  "I  will  encourage  no  senseless  superstition  in  my 
people  by  trying  to  trace  these.  Especially — "  But 
he  did  not  finish. 

So  we  dug  the  priest's  grave,  taking  turn  by  turn,  for 
we  are  not  young;  and  his  brother  in  God  buried  him. 


THE  LAME  PRIEST  233 

What  either  of  us  thought  about  the  whole  matter  he 
did  not  say. 

But  the  very  day  after,  while  the  frozen  mound  of 
consecrated  earth  was  raw  in  the  sunshine,  Andrew 
walked  in  at  my  door. 

"We  come  back,"  he  announced.  "All  good  here  now! 
Lame  wolf  dead.  Shoot  him  after  dark,  silver  bullet. 
Weguladimooch.  Bochtusum." 1 

He  said  never  a  word  about  the  new  grave.  And 
neither  did  I. 

1  Evil  spirit,  wolf.  Weguladimooch  is  a  word  no  Indian  cares  to 
say. 


FIRE  OF  APPLE-WOOD 

BY    M.    A.    DEWOLFE  HOWE 

THE  windows  toward  the  east  and  north 
Rattle  and  drip  against  the  storm. 

Though  spring,  without,  has  ventured  forth, 
Only  the  fireside  here  is  warm. 

Through  wind-swept  sheets  of  driven  rain 
The  ancient  orchard  shows  forlorn, 

Like  brave  old  soldiery  half  slain, 
With  gaps  to  tell  the  losses  borne. 

And  fragments  of  the  fallen  trees 

Burn  on  the  hearth  before  me  bright; 

The  fire  their  captive  spirit  frees : 
Musing,  I  watch  it  take  its  flight. 

In  embers  flushed  and  embers  pale 

Sparkle  the  blooms  of  some  far  spring; 

Of  bees  and  sunshine  what  a  tale 
Told  in  a  moment's  flowering! 

How  swift  the  flames  of  gold  and  blue 
Up  from  the  glowing  logs  aspire ! 

There  yellowbird  and  bluebird  flew, 
And  oriole,  each  with  wings  of  fire. 


FIRE  OF  APPLE-WOOD  235 

Now  in  the  hearth-light  —  or  the  trees  — 
Stirs  something  they  and  I  have  heard: 

Ah,  is  it  not  the  summer  breeze, 

Come  back  to  us  with  sun  and  bird? 

Poor  summers,  born  again  —  to  die! 

Quickly  as  they  have  come,  they  go. 
See,  where  the  ashes  smouldering  lie, 

The  orchard  floor  is  white  with  snow. 


SUMMER  DIED  LAST  NIGHT 

BY   MAUDE    CALDWELL   PERRY 

SUMMER  died  last  night, 
Lady  of  Delight,  — 
Summer  died  last  night; 
Look  for  her  no  more. 

In  the  early  gray 
Of  this  golden  day, 
In  the  early  gray 

By  the  mirrored  shore 

I  saw  leaves  of  red,  — 
So  I  knew  her  dead,  — 
I  saw  leaves  of  red 

Wreathed  upon  her  door. 


UNAWARES 

BY   ALICE    WILLIAMS    BROTHERTON 

A  SONG  welled  up  in  the  singer's  heart 
(Like  a  song  in  the  throat  of  a  bird,) 

And  loud  he  sang,  and  far  it  rang  — 
For  his  heart  was  strangely  stirred; 

And  he  sang  for  the  very  joy  of  song, 
With  no  thoughts  of  one  who  heard. 

Within  the  listener's  wayward  soul 

A  heavenly  patience  grew. 
He  fared  on  his  way  with  a  benison 

On  the  singer,  who  never  knew 
How  the  careless  song  of  an  idle  hour 

Had  shaped  a  life  anew. 


SAINT  R.   L.   S. 

BY    SARAH   N.    CLEGHORN 

SULTRY  and  brazen  was  the  August  day 
When  Sister  Stanislaus  came  down  to  see 
The  little  boy  with  the  tuberculous  knee. 

And  as  she  thought  to  find  him,  so  he  lay: 
Still  staring,  through  the  dizzy  waves  of  heat, 
At  the  tall  tenement  across  the  street. 

But  did  he  see  that  dreary  picture?  Nay, 
In  his  mind's  eye  a  sunlit  harbor  showed, 
Where  a  tall  pirate  ship  at  anchor  rode. 

Yes,  he  was  full  ten  thousand  miles  away.  — 
(The  Sister,  when  she  turned  his  pillow  over, 
Kissed  "Treasure  Island"  on  its  well-worn  cover.) 


Courtesy  Stevenson  Society 

KING  KALAKAUA  AND  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON,  THE  AUTHOR 
OF  "TREASURE  ISLAND" 


THE  YELLOW  BOWL 

BY   LILY   A.    LONG 

WHEN  first  the  Manchu  came  to  power, 
A  potter  made  this  yellow  bowl, 
With  quiet  curve  and  border  scroll, 

And  here  inlaid  the  imperial  flower. 
The  peace  of  art  was  in  his  soul. 

Had  not  the  Manchu  come  to  power? 

Upon  the  flaky  yellow  base 

That  now  is  dull  and  now  is  bright, 
A  flowering  branch,  a  bird  alight, 

Expressed  his  thought  in  formal  grace. 
Had  not  disorder  taken  flight 

And  left  for  art  a  quiet  place? 

And  then,  the  artist  sense  alight, 
He  drew  upon  the  yellow  bowl 
The  symbol  of  the  restless  soul  — 

A  butterfly,  in  poised  flight. 

For  though  the  Manchu  was  in  power, 
The  soul  must  wake  when  strikes  the  hour. 


OUT  OF  THE   WILDERNESS 

BY   JOHN   MUIR 

FATHER'S  strict  rule  was,  straight  to  bed  immediately 
after  family  worship,  which  in  winter  was  usually  over 
by  eight  o'clock.  I  was  in  the  habit  of  lingering  in  the 
kitchen  with  a  book  and  candle  after  the  rest  of  the 
family  had  retired,  and  considered  myself  fortunate  if 
I  got  five  minutes  reading  before  father  noticed  the 
light  and  ordered  me  to  bed;  an  order  which,  of  course, 
I  immediately  obeyed.  But  night  after  night  I  tried 
to  steal  minutes  in  the  same  lingering  way;  and  how 
keenly  precious  those  minutes  were,  few  nowadays  can 
know.  Father  failed,  perhaps,  two  or  three  times  in 
a  whole  winter  to  notice  my  light  for  nearly  ten  min 
utes,  magnificent  golden  blocks  of  time,  long  to  be  re 
membered  like  holidays  or  geological  periods.  One 
evening  when  I  was  reading  Church  History  father  was 
particularly  irritable  and  called  out  with  hope-killing 
emphasis :  — 

"John,  go  to  bed!  Must  I  give  you  a  separate  order 
every  night  to  get  you  to  go  to  bed?  Now,  I  will  have 
no  irregularity  in  the  family;  you  must  go  when  the 
rest  go,  and  without  my  having  to  tell  you. "  Then,  as 
an  afterthought,  as  if  judging  that  his  words  and  tone 
of  voice  were  too  severe  for  so  pardonable  an  offense, 
he  unwarily  added,  "If  you  will  read,  get  up  in  the 
morning.  You  may  get  up  as  early  as  you  like." 


242  OUT  OF  THE   WILDERNESS 

That  night  I  went  to  bed  wishing  with  all  my  heart 
and  soul  that  somebody  or  something  might  call  me 
out  of  sleep  to  avail  myself  of  this  wonderful  indulgence; 
and  next  morning,  to  my  joyful  surprise,  I  awoke 
before  father  called  me.  A  boy  sleeps  soundly  after 
working  all  day  in  the  snowy  woods,  but  that  frosty 
morning  I  sprang  out  of  bed  as  if  called  by  a  trumpet 
blast,  rushed  downstairs  scarce  feeling  my  chilblains, 
enormously  eager  to  see  how  much  time  I  had  won; 
and,  when  I  held  up  my  candle  to  a  little  clock  that 
stood  on  a  bracket  in  the  kitchen,  I  found  that  it  was 
only  one  o'clock.  I  had  gained  five  hours,  almost  half  a 
day!  "Five  hours  to  myself!"  I  said,  "five  huge,  solid 
hours!"  I  can  hardly  think  of  any  other  event  in  my 
life,  any  discovery  I  ever  made  that  gave  birth  to  joy 
so  transportingly  glorious  as  the  possession  of  these 
five  frosty  hours. 

In  the  glad  tumultuous  excitement  of  so  much  sud 
denly  acquired  time-wealth  I  hardly  knew  what  to  do 
with  it.  I  first  thought  of  going  on  with  my  reading, 
but  the  zero  weather  would  make  a  fire  necessary,  and 
it  occurred  to  me  that  father  might  object  to  the  cost 
of  firewood  that  took  time  to  chop.  Therefore  I  pru 
dently  decided  to  go  down  cellar,  where  I  at  least  would 
find  a  tolerable  temperature  very  little  below  the  freez 
ing-point,  for  the  walls  were  banked  up  in  the  fall  to 
keep  the  potatoes  from  freezing.  There  were  a  few  tools 
in  a  corner  of  the  cellar,  a  vise,  a  few  files,  a  hammer,  and 
so  forth,  that  father  had  brought  from  Scotland,  but 
no  saw  excepting  a  coarse,  crooked  one  that  was  unfit 
for  sawing  dry  hickory  or  oak.  So  I  made  a  fine  tooth 
saw  suitable  for  my  work  out  of  a  strip  of  steel  that  had 


OUT  OF  THE   WILDERNESS  243 

formed  part  of  an  old-fashioned  corset,  that  cut  the 
hardest  wood  smoothly.  I  also  made  my  own  brad 
awls  and  punches,  a  pair  of  compasses,  and  so  forth, 
out  of  wire  and  old  files,  and  went  to  work  on  a  model  of 
a  self -setting  sawmill  I  had  invented. 

Next  morning  I  managed  joyfully  to  get  up  at  the 
same  gloriously  early  hour.  My  cellar  workshop  was 
immediately  under  father's  bed  and  the  filing  and 
tapping  in  making  cog-wheels,  journals,  cams,  and  so 
forth,  must  no  doubt  have  annoyed  him;  but  with  the 
permission  he  had  granted  in  his  mind,  and  doubtless 
hoping  that  I  would  soon  tire  of  getting  up  at  one 
o'clock,  he  impatiently  waited  about  two  weeks  before 
saying  a  word.  I  did  not  vary  more  than  five  minutes 
from  one  o'clock  all  winter,  nor  did  I  feel  any  bad 
effects  whatever,  nor  did  I  think  at  all  about  the  sub 
ject  whether  so  little  sleep  might  be  in  any  way  injur 
ious;  it  was  a  grand  triumph  of  will-power  over  cold 
and  common  comfort  and  work-weariness  in  abruptly 
cutting  down  my  ten  hours'  allowance  of  sleep  to  five. 
I  simply  felt  that  I  was  rich  beyond  anything  I  could 
have  dreamed  of  or  hoped  for.  I  was  far  more  than 
happy.  Like  Tarn  o'  Shanter,  I  was 

.   .   .  glorious, 
O'er  a'  the  ills  of  life  victorious. 

Father,  as  was  customary  in  Scotland,  gave  thanks 
and  asked  a  blessing  before  meals,  not  merely  as  a 
matter  of  form  and  decent  Christian  manners,  for  he 
regarded  food  as  a  gift  derived  directly  from  the  hands 
of  the  Father  in  heaven.  Therefore  every  meal  was 
to  him  a  sacrament  requiring  conduct  and  attitude  of 
mind  not  unlike  that  befitting  the  Lord's  Supper.  No 


244  OUT  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

idle  word  was  allowed  to  be  spoken  at  our  table,  much 
less  any  laughing  or  fun  or  story  -telling.  When  we  were 
at  the  breakfast-table,  about  two  weeks  after  the  great 
golden  time-discovery,  father  cleared  his  throat,  pre 
liminary,  as  we  all  knew,  to  saying  something  consid 
ered  important.  I  feared  that  it  was  to  be  on  the  sub 
ject  of  my  early  rising,  and  dreaded  the  withdrawal  of 
the  permission  he  had  granted  on  account  of  the  noise 
I  made,  but  still  hoping  that,  as  he  had  given  his  word 
that  I  might  get  up  as  early  as  I  wished,  he  would  as  a 
Scotchman  stand  to  it,  even  though  it  was  given  in 
an  unguarded  moment  and  taken  in  a  sense  unreason 
ably  far-reaching.  The  solemn  sacramental  silence  was 
broken  by  the  dreaded  question :  — 

"John,  what  time  is  it  when  you  get  up  in  the 
morning?" 

"About  one  o'clock,"  I  replied  in  a  low,  meek,  guilty 
tone  of  voice. 

"And  what  kind  of  a  time  is  that,  getting  up  in  the 
middle  of  the  night  and  disturbing  the  whole  family?" 

I  simply  reminded  him  of  the  permission  he  had 
freely  granted  me  to  get  up  as  early  as  I  wished. 

"I  know  it,"  he  said,  in  an  almost  agonizing  tone  of 
voice;  "I  know  I  gave  you  that  miserable  permission, 
but  I  never  imagined  that  you  would  get  up  in  the  mid 
dle  of  the  night." 

To  this  I  cautiously  made  no  reply,  but  continued  to 
listen  for  the  heavenly  one-o'clock  call,  and  it  never 
failed. 

After  completing  my  self-setting  sawmill,  I  dammed 
one  of  the  streams  in  the  meadow  and  put  the  mill  in 
operation.  This  invention  was  speedily  followed  by  a 


OUT  OF  THE   WILDERNESS  245 

lot  of  others  —  water-wheels,  curious  door-locks  and 
latches,  thermometers,  hygrometers,  pyrometers,  clocks, 
a  barometer,  an  automatic  contrivance  for  feeding  the 
horses  at  any  required  hour,  a  lamp-lighter  and  fire 
lighter,  an  early-or-late-rising  machine,  and  so  forth. 

After  the  sawmill  was  proved  and  discharged  from 
my  mind,  I  happened  to  think  it  would  be  a  fine  thing 
to  make  a  timekeeper  which  would  tell  the  day  of  the 
week  and  the  day  of  the  month,  as  well  as  strike  like  a 
common  clock  and  point  out  the  hours;  also  to  have  an 
attachment  whereby  it  could  be  connected  with  a  bed 
stead  to  set  me  on  my  feet  at  any  hour  in  the  morning; 
also  to  start  fires,  light  lamps,  and  so  forth.  I  had 
learned  the  time  laws  of  the  pendulum  from  a  book,  but 
with  this  exception  I  knew  nothing  of  timekeepers,  for 
I  had  never  seen  the  inside  of  any  sort  of  clock  or  watch. 
After  long  brooding,  the  novel  clock  was  at  length  com 
pleted  in  my  mind,  and  was  tried  and  found  to  be 
durable,  and  to  work  well  and  look  well,  before  I  had 
begun  to  build  it  in  wood.  I  carried  small  parts  of  it  in 
my  pocket  to  whittle  at  when  I  was  out  at  work  on  the 
farm,  using  every  spare  or  stolen  moment  within  reach 
without  father's  knowing  anything  about  it. 

In  the  middle  of  summer,  when  harvesting  was  in 
progress,  the  novel  time-machine  was  nearly  completed. 
It  was  hidden  upstairs  in  a  spare  bedroom  where  some 
tools  were  kept.  I  did  the  making  and  mending  on  the 
farm;  but  one  day  at  noon,  when  I  happened  to  be 
away,  father  went  upstairs  for  a  hammer  or  something 
and  discovered  the  mysterious  machine  back  of  the  bed 
stead.  My  sister  Margaret  saw  him  on  his  knees 
examining  it,  and  at  the  first  opportunity  whispered  in 


246  OUT  OF  THE   WILDERNESS 

my  ear,  "John,  fayther  saw  that  thing  you're  making 
upstairs. "  None  of  the  family  knew  what  I  was  doing, 
but  they  knew  very  well  that  all  such  work  was  frowned 
on  by  father,  and  kindly  warned  me  of  any  danger  that 
threatened  my  plans.  The  fine  invention  seemed  doomed 
to  destruction  before  its  time-ticking  commenced,  al 
though  I  had  carried  it  so  long  in  my  mind  that  I 
thought  it  handsome,  and  like  the  nest  of  Burns's  wee 
mousie  it  had  cost  me  mony  a  weary  whittling  nibble. 
When  we  were  at  dinner  several  days  after  the  sad  dis 
covery,  father  began  to  clear  his  throat,  and  I  feared  the 
doom  of  martyrdom  was  about  to  be  pronounced  on 
my  grand  clock. 

"John,"  he  inquired,  "what  is  that  thing  you  are 
making  upstairs?" 

I  replied  in  desperation  that  I  did  n't  know  what  to 
call  it. 

"What!  You  mean  to  say  you  don't  know  what  you 
are  trying  to  do?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  I  said,  "I  know  very  well  what  I  am 
doing." 

"WThat  then  is  the  thing  for?" 

"It's  for  a  lot  of  things,"  I  replied,  "but  getting 
people  up  early  in  the  morning  is  one  of  the  main  things 
it  is  intended  for;  therefore,  it  might  perhaps  be  called 
an  early-rising  machine." 

After  getting  up  so  extravagantly  early,  to  make  a 
machine  for  getting  up  still  earlier  seemed  so  ridicu 
lous  that  he  very  nearly  laughed.  But  after  controlling 
himself,  and  getting  command  of  a  sufficiently  solemn 
face  and  voice,  he  said  severely,  "  Do  you  not  think  it 
is  very  wrong  to  waste  your  time  on  such  nonsense?" 


OUT  OF  THE   WILDERNESS  247 

"No,"  I  said  meekly,  "I  don't  think  I'm  doing  any 
wrong. " 

"Well,"  he  replied,  "I  assure  you  I  do;  and  if  you 
were  only  half  as  zealous  in  the  study  of  religion  as 
you  are  in  contriving  and  whittling  these  useless,  non 
sensical  things,  it  would  be  infinitely  better  for  you.  I 
want  you  to  be  like  Paul,  who  said  that  he  desired 
to  know  nothing  among  men  but  Christ  and  Him 
crucified." 

To  this  I  made  no  reply,  gloomily  believing  my  fine 
machine  was  to  be  burned,  but  still  taking  what  com 
fort  I  could  in  realizing  that,  anyhow,  I  had  enjoyed 
inventing  and  making  it. 

After  a  few  days,  finding  that  nothing  more  was  to  be 
said,  and  that  father,  after  all,  had  not  had  the  heart 
to  destroy  it,  all  necessity  for  secrecy  being  ended,  I 
finished  it  in  the  half-hours  that  we  had  at  noon,  and 
set  it  in  the  parlor  between  two  chairs,  hung  moraine 
boulders,  that  had  come  from  the  direction  of  Lake 
Superior,  on  it  for  weights,  and  set  it  running.  We 
were  then  hauling  grain  into  the  barn.  Father  at  this 
period  devoted  himself  entirely  to  the  Bible  and  did  no 
farm  work  whatever.  The  clock  had  a  good  loud  tick, 
and  when  he  heard  it  strike,  one  of  my  sisters  told  me 
that  he  left  his  study,  went  to  the  parlor,  got  down  on 
his  knees,  and  carefully  examined  the  machinery,  which 
was  all  in  plain  sight,  not  being  inclosed  in  a  case.  This 
he  did  repeatedly,  and  evidently  seemed  a  little  proud 
of  my  ability  to  invent  and  whittle  such  a  thing,  though 
careful  to  give  no  encouragement  for  anything  more  of 
the  kind  in  future. 

But  somehow  it  seemed  impossible  to  stop.  Inventing 


248  OUT  OF  THE   WILDERNESS 

and  whittling  faster  than  ever,  I  made  another  hickory 
clock,  shaped  like  a  scythe  to  symbolize  the  scythe 
of  Father  Time.  The  pendulum  is  a  bunch  of  arrows 
symbolizing  the  flight  of  time.  It  hangs  on  a  leafless 
mossy  oak  snag  showing  the  effect  of  time,  and  on  the 
snath  is  written,  "All  flesh  is  grass."  This,  especially 
the  inscription,  rather  pleased  father,  and  of  course 
mother  and  all  my  sisters  and  brothers  admired  it. 
Like  the  first,  it  indicates  the  days  of  the  week  and 
month,  starts  fires  and  beds  at  any  given  hour  and 
minute,  and  though  made  more  than  fifty  years  ago, 
is  still  a  good  timekeeper. 

My  mind  still  running  on  clocks,  I  invented  a  big 
one  like  a  town  clock,  with  four  dials,  with  the  time 
figures  so  large  they  could  be  read  by  all  our  immediate 
neighbors  as  well  as  ourselves  when  at  work  in  the  fields, 
and  on  the  side  next  the  house  the  days  of  the  week 
and  month  were  indicated.  It  was  to  be  placed  on  the 
peak  of  the  barn  roof.  But  just  as  it  was  all  but  finished 
father  stopped  me,  saying  that  it  would  bring  too  many 
people  around  the  barn.  I  then  asked  permission  to  put 
it  on  the  top  of  a  black  oak  tree  near  the  house.  Study 
ing  the  larger  main  branches,  I  thought  I  could  secure 
a  sufficiently  rigid  foundation  for  it,  while  the  trimmed 
sprays  and  leaves  would  conceal  the  angles  of  the  cabin 
required  to  shelter  the  works  from  the  weather,  and 
the  two-second  pendulum,  fourteen  feet  long,  could  be 
snugly  incased  on  the  side  of  the  trunk.  Nothing 
about  the  grand,  useful  timekeeper,  I  argued,  would 
disfigure  the  tree. 

"But  that,"  he  objected,  "would  draw  still  bigger, 
bothersome  trampling  crowds  about  the  place,  for  who 


OUT  OF  THE   WILDERNESS  249 

ever  heard  of  anything  so  queer  as  a  big  clock  on  the 
top  of  a  tree." 

So  I  had  to  lay  aside  its  big  wheels  and  cams  and 
rest  content  with  the  pleasure  of  inventing  it,  and  look 
ing  at  it  in  my  mind  and  listening  to  the  deep,  solemn 
throbbing  of  its  long  two-second  pendulum,  with  its 
two  old  axes  back  to  back  for  the  bob. 

One  of  my  inventions  was  a  large  thermometer  made 
of  an  iron  rod,  about  three  feet  long  and  five-eighths  of 
an  inch  in  diameter,  that  had  formed  part  of  a  wagon- 
box.  The  expansion  and  contraction  of  this  rod  was 
multiplied  by  a  series  of  levers  made  of  strips  of  hoop- 
iron.  The  pressure  of  the  rod  against  the  levers  was 
kept  constant  by  a  small  counterweight,  so  that  the 
slightest  change  in  the  length  of  the  rod  was  instantly 
shown  on  a  dial  about  three  feet  wide,  multiplied  about 
thirty-two  thousand  times.  The  zero  point  was  gained 
by  packing  the  rod  in  wet  snow.  The  scale  was  so  large 
that  the  big  black  hand  on  the  white  painted  dial  could 
be  seen  distinctly,  and  the  temperature  read,  while  we 
were  ploughing  in  the  field  below  the  house.  The  ex 
tremes  of  heat  and  cold  caused  the  hand  to  make  sev 
eral  revolutions.  The  number  of  these  revolutions  was 
indicated  on  a  small  dial  marked  on  the  larger  one. 
This  thermometer  was  fastened  on  the  side  of  the 
house,  and  was  so  sensitive  that  when  anyone  ap 
proached  it  within  four  or  five  feet  the  heat  radiated 
from  the  observer's  body  caused  the  hand  of  the  dial 
to  move  so  fast  that  the  motion  was  plainly  visible,  and 
when  he  stepped  back,  the  hand  moved  slowly  back  to 
its  normal  position.  It  was  regarded  as  a  great  wonder 
by  the  neighbors,  and  even  by  my  own  all-Bible  father. 


250  OUT  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

Talking  over  plans  with  me  one  day,  a  friendly 
neighbor  said,  "Now,  John,  if  you  wish  to  get  into  a 
machine-shop,  just  take  some  of  your  inventions  to  the 
state  fair,  and  you  may  be  sure  that  as  soon  as  they  are 
seen  they  will  open  the  door  of  any  shop  in  the  country 
for  you.  You  will  be  welcomed  everywhere."  And 
when  I  doubtingly  asked  if  people  would  care  to  look 
at  things  made  of  wood,  he  said,  "Made  of  wood! 
Made  of  wood !  What  does  it  matter  what  they  're  made 
of  when  they  are  so  out-and-out  original.  There 's  noth 
ing  else  like  them  in  the  world.  That  is  what  will  at 
tract  attention,  and  besides,  they're  mighty  handsome 
things  anyway  to  come  from  the  backwoods." 

So  I  was  encouraged  to  leave  home  and  go  at  his 
direction  to  the  state  fair  when  it  was  being  held  in 
Madison. 

When  I  told  father  that  I  was  about  to  leave  home, 
and  inquired  whether,  if  I  should  happen  to  be  in  need 
of  money,  he  would  send  me  a  little,  he  said,  "No. 
Depend  entirely  on  yourself."  Good  advice,  I  suppose, 
but  surely  needlessly  severe  for  a  bashful  home-loving 
boy  who  had  worked  so  hard.  I  had  the  gold  sovereign 
that  my  grandfather  had  given  me  when  I  left  Scotland, 
and  a  few  dollars,  perhaps  ten,  that  I  had  made  by  rais 
ing  a  few  bushels  of  grain  on  a  little  patch  of  sandy, 
abandoned  ground.  So  when  I  left  home  to  try  the 
world  I  had  only  fifteen  dollars  in  my  pocket. 

Strange  to  say,  father  carefully  taught  us  to  consider 
ourselves  very  poor  worms  of  the  dust,  conceived  in  sin, 
and  so  forth,  and  devoutly  believed  that  quenching 
every  spark  of  pride  and  self-confidence  was  a  sacred 
duty,  without  realizing  that  in  so  doing  he  might,  at 


OUT  OF  THE   WILDERNESS  251 

the  same  time,  be  quenching  everything  else.  Praise 
he  considered  most  venomous,  and  tried  to  assure  me 
that  when  I  was  fairly  out  in  the  wicked  world,  making 
my  own  way,  I  would  soon  learn  that,  although  I  might 
have  thought  him  a  hard  taskmaster  at  times,  strangers 
were  far  harder.  On  the  contrary,  I  found  no  lack  of 
kindness  and  sympathy.  All  the  baggage  I  carried  was 
a  package  made  up  of  the  two  clocks  and  a  small  ther 
mometer  made  of  a  piece  of  old  washboard,  all  three 
tied  together,  with  no  covering  or  case  of  any  sort,  the 
whole  looking  like  one  very  complicated  machine. 

The  aching  parting  from  mother  and  my  sisters  was 
of  course  hard  to  bear.  Father  let  David  drive  me  down 
to  Pardeeville,  a  place  I  had  never  before  seen,  though 
it  is  only  nine  miles  south  of  the  Hickory  Hill  farm. 
When  we  arrived  at  the  village  tavern  it  seemed  de 
serted.  Not  a  single  person  was  in  sight.  I  set  my  clock 
baggage  on  the  rickety  platform.  David  said  good-bye 
and  started  for  home,  leaving  me  alone  in  the  world. 

The  grinding  noise  made  by  the  wagon  in  turning 
short  brought  out  the  landlord,  and  the  first  thing  that 
caught  his  eye  was  my  strange  bundle.  Then  he  looked 
at  me  and  said,  "Hello,  young  man,  what 's  this?" 

"Machines,"  I  said,  "for  keeping  time  and  getting 
up  in  the  morning,  and  so  forth." 

"Well!  Well!  That's  a  mighty  queer  get-up.  You 
must  be  a  Down-East  Yankee.  Where  did  you  get  the 
pattern  for  such  a  thing?" 

"In  my  head,"  I  said. 

Someone  down  the  street  happened  to  notice  the 
landlord  looking  intently  at  something  and  came  to  see 
what  it  was.  Three  or  four  people  in  that  little  village 


252  OUT  OF  THE   WILDERNESS 

formed  an  attractive  crowd,  and  in  fifteen  or  twenty 
minutes  the  greater  part  of  the  population  of  Pardeeville 
stood  gazing  in  a  circle  around  my  strange  hickory  be 
longings.  I  kept  outside  of  the  circle  to  avoid  being  seen, 
and  had  the  advantage  of  hearing  the  remarks  without 
being  embarassed. 

I  stayed  overnight  at  this  little  tavern,  waiting  for  a 
train.  In  the  morning  I  went  to  the  station,  and  set  my 
bundle  on  the  platform.  Along  came  the  thundering 
train,  a  glorious  sight;  the  first  train  I  had  ever  waited 
for.  When  the  conductor  saw  my  queer  baggage,  he 
cried,  "Hello!  What  have  we  here?" 

"Inventions  for  keeping  time,  early  rising,  and  so 
forth.  May  I  take' them  into  the  car  with  me?" 

"You  can  take  them  where  you  like,"  he  replied, 
"but  you  had  better  give  them  to  the  baggage-master. 
If  you  take  them  into  the  car  they  will  draw  a  crowd 
and  might  get  broken." 

So  I  gave  them  to  the  baggage-master,  and  made 
haste  to  ask  the  conductor  whether  I  might  ride  on  the 
engine.  He  goodnaturedly  said,  "Yes,  it's  the  right 
place  for  you.  Run  ahead,  and  tell  the  engineer  what  I 
say." 

But  the  engineer  bluntly  refused  to  let  me  on,  saying, 
"It  don't  matter  what  the  conductor  told  you.  I  say 
you  can't  ride  on  my  engine." 

By  this  time  the  conductor,  standing  ready  to  start 
his  train,  was  watching  to  see  what  luck  I  had,  and 
when  he  saw  me  returning  came  ahead  to  meet  me. 

"The  engineer  won't  let  me  on,"  I  reported. 

"  Won't  he?  "said  the  kind  conductor.  "  Oh,  I  guess  he 
will.  You  come  down  with  me."  And  so  he  actually 


OUT  OF  THE   WILDERNESS  253 

took  the  time  and  patience  to  walk  the  length  of  that 
long  train  to  get  me  on  to  the  engine. 

"Charlie,"  said  he,  addressing  the  engineer,  "don't 
you  ever  take  a  passenger?" 

"Very  seldom,"  he  replied. 

"Anyhow,  I  wish  you  would  take  this  young  man  on. 
He  has  the  strangest  machines  in  the  baggage  car  I 
ever  saw  in  my  life.  I  believe  he  could  make  a  locomo 
tive.  He  wants  to  see  the  engine  running.  Let  him  on. " 
Then,  in  a  low  whisper,  he  told  me  to  jump  on,  which 
I  did  gladly,  the  engineer  offering  neither  encourage 
ment  nor  objection. 

As  soon  as  the  train  was  started  the  engineer  asked 
what  the  "strange  thing"  the  conductor  spoke  of  was. 

"Only  inventions  for  keeping  time,  getting  folks  up 
in  the  morning,  and  so  forth,"  I  hastily  replied;  and 
before  he  could  ask  any  more  questions  I  asked  permis 
sion  to  go  outside  of  the  cab  to  see  the  machinery. 

This  he  kindly  granted,  adding,  "Be  careful  not  to 
fall  off,  and  when  you  hear  me  whistling  for  a  station 
you  come  back,  because  if  it  is  reported  against  me  to 
the  superintendent  that  I  allow  boys  to  run  all  over  my 
engine,  I  might  lose  my  job." 

Assuring  him  that  I  would  come  back  promptly,  I 
went  out  and  walked  along  the  footboard  on  the  side 
of  the  boiler,  watching  the  magnificent  machine  rushing 
through  the  landscape  as  if  glorying  in  its  strength  like 
a  living  creature.  While  seated  on  the  cow-catcher  plat 
form  I  seemed  to  be  fairly  flying,  and  the  wonderful 
display  of  power  and  motion  was  enchanting.  This  was 
the  first  time  I  had  ever  been  on  a  train,  much  less  a 
locomotive,  since  I  had  left  Scotland. 


254 

When  I  got  to  Madison  I  thanked  the  kind  conductor 
and  engineer  for  my  glorious  ride,  inquired  the  way  to 
the  fair,  shouldered  my  inventions,  and  walked  to  the 
fair-ground. 

When  I  applied  for  an  admission  ticket  at  a  window 
by  the  gate  I  told  the  agent  that  I  had  something  to 
exhibit. 

"What  is  it?"  he  inquired. 

"Well,  here  it  is.   Look  at  it." 

When  he  craned  his  neck  through  the  window  and 
got  a  glimpse  of  my  bundle  he  cried  excitedly,  "Oh!  you 
don't  need  a  ticket  —  come  right  in." 

When  I  inquired  where  such  things  should  be  ex 
hibited,  he  said,  "  You  see  that  building  up  on  the  hill 
with  a  big  flag  on  it?  That's  the  Fine  Arts  Hall,  and 
it 's  just  the  place  for  your  wonderful  invention." 

So  I  went  up  to  the  Fine  Arts  Hall  and  looked  in, 
wondering  if  they  would  allow  wooden  things  in  so  fine 
a  place. 

I  was  met  at  the  door  by  a  dignified  gentleman  who 
greeted  me  kindly  and  said,  "Young  man,  what  have 
we  got  here?" 

"Two  clocks  and  a  thermometer,"  I  replied. 

"Did  you  make  these?  They  look  wonderfully  beau 
tiful  and  novel,  and  must,  I  think,  prove  the  most  inter 
esting  feature  of  the  fair." 

"Where  shall  I  place  them?"  I  inquired. 

"Just  look  around,  young  man,  and  choose  the  place 
you  like  best,  whether  it  is  occupied  or  not.  You  can 
have  your  pick  of  all  the  building,  and  a  carpenter  to 
make  the  necessary  shelving  and  assist  you  in  every 
way  possible!" 


255 

So  I  quickly  had  a  shelf  made  large  enough  for  all  of 
them,  went  out  on  the  hill  and  picked  up  some  glacial 
boulders  of  the  right  size  for  weights,  and  in  fifteen  or 
twenty  minutes  the  clocks  were  running.  They  seemed 
to  attract  more  attention  than  anything  else  in  the  hall. 
I  got  lots  of  praise  from  the  crowd  and  the  newspaper 
reporters.  The  local  press  reports  were  copied  into 
the  Eastern  papers.  It  was  considered  wonderful  that  a 
boy  on  a  farm  had  been  able  to  invent  and  make  such 
things,  and  almost  every  spectator  foretold  good  for 
tune.  But  I  had  been  so  lectured  by  my  father  to  avoid 
praise,  above  all  things,  that  I  was  afraid  to  read  those 
kind  newspaper  notices,  and  never  clipped  out  or  pre 
served  any  of  them,  just  glanced  at  them,  and  turned 
away  my  eyes  from  beholding  vanity,  and  so  forth.  They 
gave  me  a  prize  of  ten  or  fifteen  dollars,  and  a  diploma 
for  wonderful  things  not  down  in  the  list  of  exhibits. 

Many  years  later,  after  I  had  written  articles  and 
books,  I  received  a  letter  from  the  gentleman  who  had 
charge  of  the  Fine  Arts  Hall.  He  proved  to  have  been 
the  Professor  of  English  Literature  in  the  University  of 
Wisconsin  at  this  fair-time,  and  long  afterward  he  sent 
me  clippings  of  reports  of  his  lectures.  He  had  a  lecture 
on  me,  discussing  style,  and  so  forth,  and  telling  how 
well  he  remembered  my  arrival  at  the  hall  in  my  shirt 
sleeves  with  those  mechanical  wonders  on  my  shoulder, 
and  so  forth,  and  so  forth.  These  inventions,  though  of 
little  importance,  opened  all  doors  for  me,  and  made 
marks  that  have  lasted  many  years,  simply  because 
they  were  original  and  promising. 


ONCE,  when  the  river  had  been  up  but  was  falling,  I 
decided  that  I  must  get  to  the  post-office  after  school. 
They  told  me  that  it  would  be  safe  if  I  crossed  carefully 
and  at  the  right  spot.  To  impress  upon  me  how  very 
unsafe  it  might  be  to  cross  Rio  Verde  at  the  wrong  spot, 
they  had  before  told  me  various  gruesome  tales  of  hap 
penings  along  the  river.  There  was  the  story  of  a 
young  soldier  who,  before  the  Post  was  the  Post  only  in 
name,  had  tried  to  cross  the  Verde  during  high  water 
and  had  been  seen  no  more.  There  was  the  story  of  a 
young  cowboy  who,  only  a  few  years  before  this,  had 
been  lost  just  below  the  Wests'  house,  in  the  sight  of 
the  Wests  and  of  several  other  people.  He  had  gone 
down  suddenly  into  the  quicksand.  Some  of  those  who 
watched  him  were  unable  to  swim;  others  lost  their 
heads  for  a  minute  or  two.  He  was  gone  when  help 
tried  to  reach  him.  His  body  was  never  found. 

These  stories  I  had  heard;  but  I  was  told  now  that  I 
could  cross  the  river  without  danger,  if  only  I  would 
be  careful  and  take  the  Old  Crossing.  They  insisted 
strongly  upon  that.  I  must  take  the  Old  Crossing  right 
here  below  the  house.  There  would  be  no  danger  then. 

I  rode  forth  a  very  trifle  timorously  in  spite  of  the 
reassurances  of  the  family;  but  I  must  have  the  mail. 
Also,  I  must  put  in  the  office  my  own  important  letters. 


THE  SCHOOLMA'AM  OF  SQUAW  PEAK    257 

Down  the  lane  I  went,  and  across  the  tiny  bridge  to  the 
little  hollow  at  the  foot  of  the  bluff.  The  mud  was 
black  and  deep  and  shiny.  Beyond,  the  wet  sand  lay 
quite  unmarred  except  in  one  narrow  track.  It  gave 
the  country  a  very  lonely  look,  somehow,  as  if  it  were 
uninhabited  —  newly  washed  up  from  the  waters.  The 
river  tumbled  by,  black  and  angry. 

To  take  the  Old  Crossing  I  must  turn  from  the  one 
narrow  track,  and  that  very  act  gave  me  a  feeling  of 
greater  loneliness.  I  seemed  to  be  blazing  my  way 
through  a  new  country  and  I  did  not  much  like  being  a 
pioneer.  Still,  I  was  determined  to  obey  instructions! 

Brownie  liked  being  a  pioneer  no  better  than  I  did; 
but  we  traveled  obediently  across  the  smooth,  wet  sand 
into  a  bog  of  the  shiny  black  mud  I  had  noticed  before, 
and  on  to  the  ford.  A  white  cotton  wood  log  marked  the 
beginning  of  this  ford  —  a  bleached  skeleton  of  a  log 
that  lay  now  half-drowned  in  the  muddy  water,  like  a 
dead  body  washed  ashore.  I  did  n't  like  the  look  of  the 
crossing  —  the  water  was  so  still  and  mysterious  there. 
Neither  did  Brownie  like  it;  but  we  were  both  docile. 
We  followed  instructions  and  waded  bravely  in. 

I  pulled  my  skirts  up  and  up  and  curled  my  feet  higher 
and  higher  on  Brownie's  sides.  The  water  was  much 
nearer  wetting  me  than  I  liked  to  have  it;  but  we  were 
out  of  the  deep  place  at  last,  where  Brownie  stepped  so 
gingerly,  and  were  splashing  over  a  long  stretch  of  shal 
low  water  with  a  hard,  stony  bottom.  And  then  we  were 
on  the  wet,  unruffled  sand  again,  and  finally  on  the 
muddy  road,  where  I  saw  once  more  a  few  tracks  that 
proved  that  somebody  besides  myself  was  alive  in  the 
Valley. 


258    THE  SCHOOLMA'AM  OF  SQUAW  PEAK 

We  hurried  as  well  as  we  could  to  the  Post.  The 
river  had  to  be  crossed  again  just  before  we  entered 
Camp  Verde;  but  it  was  broader  and  shallower  here,  and 
the  bottom  was  known  to  be  stony  all  the  way  across. 
We  splashed  over,  —  a  long  way  it  seemed,  —  and  as 
soon  as  I  could  finish  my  brief  business  and  reach  it 
again,  we  splashed  back.  Three  crossings  were  made! 
Only  one  more  remained,  and  I  should  know  myself  to 
be  safe!  I  hurried.  I  needed  to  hurry  to  reach  the  last 
ford  before  dark.  In  spite  of  all  my  haste,  I  failed. 

The  damp  twilight  had  faded  into  night  as  Brownie 
and  I  drew  near  again  to  the  long  stretch  of  fresh  wet 
sand  that  lay  between  us  and  the  last  crossing.  The 
stars  were  not  very  bright  up  in  heaven,  and  they  weird 
ly  lighted  the  river  waters  that  glimmered  a  dull  silver 
under  them.  There  seemed  to  me  something  sinister  in 
that  shimmering  silver.  It  looked  too  peaceful.  I  heard 
the  river's  ugly  voice  gurgling  hungrily,  as  if  demanding 
something.  I  remembered  the  cowboy  and  the  poor 
young  soldier. 

It  was  very  dark.  I  strained  my  eyes,  when  I  had 
reached  the  water's  edge,  and  only  dimly  made  out  the 
bleached  skeleton  log  that  I  must  head  for.  Then  — 
fearfully,  I  confess  —  I  urged  the  unwilling  Brownie 
into  the  water.  It  was  a  long,  long  way  across.  I  drew 
farther  up  on  Brownie's  back,  away  and  away  from  the 
water,  and  held  my  breath. 

We  were  across  at  last. 

The  next  morning  at  the  breakfast-table  I  told  them 
how  hard  it  had  been  to  see  the  white  log  when  I  had 
crossed  the  evening  before. 

Three  men  stopped  eating  and  gazed,  gasping,  at  me. 


THE   SCHOOLMA'AM  OF  SQUAW  PEAK    259 

"You  crossed  at  the  white  log?"  they  demanded. 

"Why,  yes!  — You  told  me  the  Old  Crossing—" 
I  began,  puzzled,  feeling  guilty,  somehow. 

"But  — that's  not  the  Old  Crossing!"  they  denied 
excitedly.  "You  —  you  crossed  at  the  white  log!" 
They  seemed  stupefied  by  the  knowledge. 

"  Why,  yes.  That 's  the  crossing  we  always  have  used. 
It 's  what  I  call  the  Old  Crossing  —  " 

"No!  no!"  they  hurried  to  inform  me.  "The  Old 
Crossing  —  You  crossed  at  the  white  log !  Have  n't  you 
heard  about  the  cowboy  who  was  drowned  there? 
Don't  you  know  the  river-bottom  changes  there  with 
every  storm?  You  did  n't  see  any  tracks  leading  down 
to  that  crossing,  did  you?" 

Oh,  there  were  plenty  of  questions  they  had  to  ask  me ! 
I  could  hardly  remember  ever  having  caused  so  much 
perturbation  among  my  acquaintances.  "Sonny,"  es 
pecially,  —  who  had  given  me  most  of  my  instructions 
for  crossing,  —  kept  repeating  over  and  over,  "But  I 
told  you  —  I'm  sure  I  must  have  told  you!"  And  the 
"white  log"  kept  coming  in  like  a  refrain  from  them  all. 

At  last  they  were  convinced  that  I  should  never  again 
try  to  use  the  white-log  crossing  in  bad  weather.  Then 
they  grew  calm  —  ready  to  let  the  matter  drop. 

"You  crossed  where  no  man  would  'a'  dared  cross," 
saidBert  then,  serenely  once  more.  "  You  were  brave— 

"I  was  not  brave.  I  was  ignorant,"  I  had  the  grace  to 
admit  instantly. 

But  now  that  I  was  ignorant  no  more,  I  had  a  great 
fear  of  the  river  when  it  was  at  all  muddy  and  high;  and 
not  even  for  the  mail  would  I  try  crossing  it  when  it  was 
called  rather  dangerous  by  those  who  knew.  Yet  my 


260    THE  SCHOOLMA'AM  OF  SQUAW  PEAK 

obsession  did  lead  me  into  real  danger  at  least  one  other 
time.  It  was  nearing  the  end  of  my  year.  Mrs.  West  had 
brought  Bally  and  the  buggy  to  the  schoolhouse  for  me 
that  afternoon;  and  with  their  help,  I  was  to  return  our 
borrowed  books  to  the  school  across  the  river.  Then,  in 
spite  of  a  blackening  sky  and  a  gusty  wind,  I  was  going 
to  risk  continuing  to  the  Post  for  the  mail ! 

To  do  myself  justice,  Mrs.  West  actually  advised  my 
going  this  time.  "Why,  certainly  I'd  go  on  for  it,  if  I 
really  wanted  it,"  said  she.  "It's  too  late  in  the  season 
for  storms  on  the  Verde.  If  it  should  rain,  it  would  n't 
amount  to  much." 

That  was  enough  for  me,  of  course !  I  took  the  books 
home  and  then  went  on,  down  a  not  very  familiar  road, 
toward  Camp  Verde  and  the  post-office. 

The  country  here  was  rather  more  desert-like  than  on 
our  side  of  the  river.  It  was  flatter,  more  monotonous; 
and  I  was  traveling  through  an  uncultivated  section,  too. 
There  was  a  fence  on  one  side  for  a  way,  but  it  seemed 
to  be  only  a  pasture  fence.  Inside  and  outside,  the  al 
most  level  land  was  dotted  with  a  scattering  growth  of 
thin  mesquite.  It  was  all  dreary  enough  under  the  dark 
ening  sky. 

It  was  indeed  a  darkening  sky.  The  clouds  that  rolled 
about  old  Squaw  Peak  were  taking  on  a  hue  more  and 
more  inky  every  minute.  And  the  wind  was  blowing 
ever  more  gustily. 

I  was  watching  the  sky  with  an  increasing  nervous 
ness  now.  Mrs.  West  had  assured  me  that  it  could  n't 
rain  in  the  Valley  at  this  time  of  year.  If  I  had  been 
anywhere  else,  I  should  certainly  have  expected  rain  — 
or  something.  As  it  was,  I  began  to  expect  something. 


THE  SCHOOLMA'AM  AND  SOME  OF  HER 
CHILDREN 


262    THE  SCHOOLMA'AM  OF  SQUAW  PEAK 

Now  a  few  icy  blasts  came  cutting  down  from  the 
mountain,  and  with  them  a  great  stinging  drop  or  two 
of  rain.  I  decided  to  trust  no  longer  to  Mrs.  West,  but 
to  act  for  myself;  and  I  dived  under  the  seat  for  the  old 
umbrella  she  kept  there  and  hoisted  it  in  the  teeth  of  the 
wind.  Since  I  was  still  driving  Bally,  who  evidently  did 
not  like  the  wind  or  the  occasional  lashing  raindrops, 
this  was  no  small  task. 

I  had  hardly  got  the  umbrella  up  and  its  handle  tucked 
firmly  under  my  arm,  when  I  began  to  perceive  that  it 
was  going  to  be  entirely  insufficient.  The  cutting  gusts 
were  increasing  to  a  gale;  the  occasional  drops  to  a  clat 
ter  of  pelting  rain,  spiced  now  and  then  with  a  touch  of 
hail.  I  struggled  down  with  the  umbrella,  and  hauled 
out  an  old  slicker  which  providentially  reposed  under 
the  seat.  A  large  square  had  been  torn  from  one  corner 
of  its  tail,  but  its  shoulders  were  intact.  The  wind  got 
inside  of  it,  puffed  it  out  like  a  sail,  and  tried  to  carry  it 
bodily  out  of  my  hands. 

I  was  decidedly  nervous  now.  How  to  get  into  the 
slicker  and  under  the  umbrella  —  how  to  keep  Bally 
from  running  away? 

I  managed  it  somehow.  I  was  inside  the  slicker.  I 
had  the  handle  of  the  open  umbrella  tightly  clasped 
under  my  arm  again.  The  umbrella  itself  rested  low, 
almost  on  my  hat.  I  was  again  sitting  on  the  seat  of  the 
buggy  with  the  reins  in  my  resolute  hands.  Harder  and 
harder  blew  the  wind.  Faster  and  faster  fell  the  rain. 
More  and  more  hail  come  hurtling  down  with  it  — 
larger  and  larger  stones.  They  battered  on  to  my  um 
brella;  they  whacked  poor  Bally 's  sides  like  a  cannonade 
of  great  marbles.  For  a  little  I  was  half -blind  with  the 


storm  and  with  sheer  fright.    Then,  in  my  desperate 
need  to  act,  the  terror  cleared  away  a  little. 

The  buggy  was  filling  with  ice  and  ice-water.  Bally 
was  shivering,  balking,  leaping  ahead  in  sudden  spurts 
when  the  larger  stones  pelted  her.  At  last  she  got  her 
back  to  the  tempest  as  nearly  as  she  could,  and,  forsak 
ing  the  road,  set  off  galloping  unsteadily  through  the 
mesquite.  I  would  jerk  at  her  —  almost  stop  her.  An 
extra  pelting  of  hail  would  set  her  off  again.  I  saw  the 
end  of  it  in  a  swift  vision  —  the  wheels  of  our  chariot 
tangled  in  some  clump  of  mesquite  —  the  buggy  upset 
—  I,  lying  stiff,  crumpled,  in  the  ice-water,  with  the 
hailstones  pounding  me.  Somehow  I  had  got  to  stop 
Bally! 

For  a  second  I  did  get  her  stopped,  huddled  together 
in  the  raging  storm.  And  then  I  hurled  myself  out  over 
the  wheel  on  to  the  plain  —  a  shallow  lake,  now,  with 
hailstones  floating  in  it.  I  was  instantly  wet  to  the  knees 
gasping  with  cold;  but  I  could  not  stop.  I  sprang  to 
Bally's  bridle  and  caught  it  and  held  on.  Somehow  I 
kept  the  umbrella,  too. 

I  had  a  wild  notion  of  leading  my  horse  to  the  shelter 
of  some  clump  of  mesquite;  but  she  had  wild  notions  of 
her  own.  We  dragged  each  other  back  and  forth  for 
a  time.  Once  in  a  while  I  got  her  near  a  bush,  only 
to  find  that  it  was  worthless.  Now  and  then  she 
grew  crazy  with  the  beating  of  the  stones  and  set 
off,  pulling  me  after  her.  At  last  —  it  seemed  long, 
but  I  suppose  it  was  only  a  short  while  —  we  both 
realized  the  hopelessness  of  trying  to  better  ourselves, 
and  then  we  huddled  close  together  and  took  what  was 
coming.  That  lasted  only  a  few  minutes,  too,  I  am  sure. 


264    THE  SCHOOLMA'AM  OF  SQUAW  PEAK 

The  gale  swept  the  black  clouds  and  the  lashing  storm 
over  us.  The  flood  of  driving  rain  became  a  drizzle  and 
then  a  sprinkle.  The  pelting  stones  grew  fewer  and 
fewer,  and  ceased. 

I  stood  there  hanging  to  Bally's  bridle  and  to  the  um 
brella,  and  wondered  how  I  had  escaped  alive.  Any  one 
of  those  stones  might  have  stunned  me  if  it  had  struck 
me  squarely.  The  shallow  lake  of  the  plain  was  afloat 
with  them  everywhere.  I  climbed  into  the  buggy  - 
its  body  several  inches  deep  in  ice-water  —  and  headed 
Bally  in  what  I  thought  was  the  direction  of  the  road. 
I  happened  to  be  right.  We  reached  the  road.  We  were 
near  Camp  Verde,  I  saw. 

Now  I  was  very  wet.  My  shoulders,  protected  by  the 
yellow  slicker,  were  dry ;  but  my  shoes  were  soaked,  my 
skirts,  to  far  above  my  knees,  were  wringing  wet.  In 
spite  of  the  umbrella,  my  hat  was  wet.  It  hung  in  a 
dripping  straw  ruffle  about  my  face,  and  from  its  two 
bunches  of  lovely  pink  roses  fell  rosy  drops  of  ice-water. 
Damp  strings  of  hair  lay  against  my  cold  cheeks.  I 
probably  looked  even  worse  than  I  felt,  but  my  spirit 
was  up.  I  was  not  going  to  be  downed  by  such  trifles  as 
my  appearance  and  the  atmospheric  conditions.  I  had 
set  out  to  Camp  Verde  for  the  mail,  and  to  Camp  Verde 
for  the  mail  I  went. 

They  made  rather  a  fuss  over  me  in  the  post-office. 
I  might  have  been  killed,  they  said.  It  was  a  marvel  I 
had  n't  been  killed!  And  my  nerve — ! 

"Nerve!"!  cried  half  impatiently.  "It  was  n't  nerve! 
I  was  in  it  and  I  could  n't  get  out !  I  had  to  stand  it 
somehow!" 

To  this  day  I  am  very  glad  I  did  n't  "collapse  after  it 


THE  SCHOOLMA'AM  OF  SQUAW  PEAK    265 

was  all  over,"  or  desert  Bally,  as  they  suggested  I  might 
have  done;  but  also  to  this  day  I  do  wonder  whether  I 
did  display  much  courage  in  this  little  experience?  As 
I  said  then,  I  was  in  it,  and  I  could  not  get  out. 

I  borrowed  some  dry  clothes  in  Camp  Verde  and  went 
home  after  the  dark  had  fallen.  It  was  barely  light 
enough,  I  remember,  for  me  to  see  white  foam  and  float 
ing  hailstones  in  the  water  at  the  first  crossing.  I  was  a 
little  afraid,  but  I  reminded  myself  that  I  was  now  a 
rural  school-teacher  and  that  I  'd  better  get  over  some  of 
my  weaknesses. 


A  GROUP  OF  SEASON  POEMS 

CANDLEMAS 
BY  ARTHUR  KETCHUM 

THE  hedgerows  cast  a  shallow  shade 

Upon  the  frozen  grass, 
But  skies  at  evensong  are  soft, 

And  comes  the  Candlemas. 

Each  day  a  little  later  now 
Lingers  the  westering  sun; 

Far  out  of  sight  the  miracles 
Of  April  are  begun. 

O  barren  bough !     O  frozen  field ! 

Hopeless  ye  wait  no  more. 
Life  keeps  her  dearest  promises  — 

The  Spring  is  at  the  door! 

AN    APRIL    MORNING 
BY  BLISS  CARMAN 

ONCE  more  in  misted  April 
The  world  is  growing  green. 
Along  the  winding  river 
The  plumy  willows  lean. 


A  GROUP  OF  SEASON  POEMS         267 

Beyond  the  sweeping  meadows 
The  looming  mountains  rise, 
Like  battlements  of  dreamland 
Against  the  brooding  skies. 

In  every  wooded  valley 
The  buds  are  breaking  through, 
As  though  the  heart  of  all  things 
No  languor  ever  knew. 

The  goldenwings  and  bluebirds 
Call  to  their  heavenly  choirs. 
The  pines  are  blued  and  drifted 
With  smoke  of  brushwood  fires. 

And  in  my  sister's  garden, 
Where  little  breezes  run, 
The  golden  daffodillies 
Are  blowing  in  the  sun. 


APRIL'S  RETURN 
BY  GRACE  RICHARDSON 

A  FLUSH  is  on  the  woodland, 
A  song  is  in  the  hedge, 
The  meadow  wan  is  fair  again, 
For  April  keeps  her  pledge. 

A  thrill  with  every  heartbeat, 
A  rapture  touched  with  sighs, 
New  lustre  on  the  soul  of  Life, 
Tears  in  my  happy  eyes. 


268          A 

A  DAY  IN  JUNE 
BY  ALICE  CHOATE  PERKINS 

SOFT  breezes  through  the  apple  orchards  blow. 
Deep  in  the  tangle  of  the  matted  grass 
Lies  golden  silence.     High  above  me  pass 

The  summer  clouds,  white,  fathomless,  and  slow. 

The  dim  green  aisles  beneath  the  branches  low 
Are  hushed  and  still;  only  one  merry  bird 
Clear  calling  from  a  treetop  high  is  heard. 

The  sunlight  glances  through  the  leaves  below. 

There  is  a  sense  as  of  a  world  apart, 

Where  peace  and  beauty  hand  in  hand  will  go. 
Lost  is  all  bitterness,  and  hate,  and  wrong. 

Concealed  within  the  dusky  wood's  deep  heart 
The  quiet  hours  seem  lingering  as  they  go, 
And  all  the  perfect  day  is  one  glad  song. 

AUTUMN 
BY  BLISS  CARMAN 

Now  when  the  time  of  fruit  and  grain  is  come, 
When  apples  hang  above  the  orchard  wall, 
And  from  a  tangle  by  the  roadside  stream 
A  scent  of  wild  grapes  fills  the  racy  air, 
Comes  Autumn  with  her  sunburnt  caravan, 
Like  a  long  gypsy  train  with  trappings  gay 
And  tattered  colors  of  the  Orient, 
Moving  slow-footed  through  the  dreamy  hills. 
The  woods  of  Wilton,  at  her  coming,  wear 
Tints  of  Bokhara  and  of  Samarcand; 
The  maples  glow  with  their  Pompeian  red, 
The  hickories  with  burnt  Etruscan  gold; 
And  while  the  crickets  fife  along  her  march, 
Behind  her  banners  burns  the  crimson  sun. 


JONAS  AND  MATILDA 

THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 

THEY  were  English,  and  their  names  were  Jonas  and 
Matilda;  not  their  real  names,  of  course,  for  though  one 
often  writes  of  real  individuals,  it  is  the  custom  to  give 
them  fictitious  names.  In  this  case  I  am  obliged  to  use 
fictitious  names,  for  though  this  couple  lived  next  door 
to  me  for  two  seasons,  I  never  found  out  their  true 
names ;  so,  in  order  to  discuss  their  affairs  in  the  privacy 
of  my  family,  I  christened  them  Jonas  and  Matilda. 
Their  dwelling  was  not  over  twenty  feet  from  my  sitting- 
room  window.  It  was  quite  old,  but  had  never  before, 
to  my  knowledge,  been  occupied;  and  when,  one  April 
morning,  I  saw  a  couple  inspecting  it  with  the  evident 
intention  of  making  it  their  residence  if  it  proved  satis 
factory,  I  became  much  interested  in  the  prospect  of 
new  neighbors. 

I  was  somewhat  of  an  invalid  that  spring,  or  thought 
I  was,  —  which  is  much  the  same  thing,  as  all  physicians 
can  testify,  —  and  as  I  could  neither  read  nor  work  long 
at  a  time,  I  welcomed  the  advent  of  the  newcomers  as 
a  pleasant  break  in  watching  the  clock  for  medicine 
hours. 

Several  visits  were  made  before  the  couple  decided 
to  make  the  place  their  local  habitation,  and  I  had  my 
couch  drawn  close  to  the  window,  where,  behind  the 
friendly  screen  of  the  muslin  curtains,  I  could  see  with- 


270  JONAS  AND  MATILDA 

out  being  seen.  Sometimes,  when  the  discussion  over 
the  location  became  specially  lively,  I  did  not  scruple 
to  use  my  opera-glass.  I  may  as  well  confess  that, 
owing  to  the  perfectly  open  way  in  which  Jonas  and 
Matilda  conducted  their  domestic  affairs,  by  keeping  up 
a  daily  espionage  assisted  by  the  aforementioned  glass, 
I  became  almost  as  familiar  with  their  household  con 
cerns  as  with  my  own,  and  I  can  assure  you  I  found 
them  vastly  more  interesting. 

From  the  very  first  Matilda  showed  herself  a  female 
of  decided  opinions,  which  she  aired  both  in  season  and 
out  of  season.  As  for  Jonas,  he  proved  himself  like 
charity:  he  bore  all  things,  hoped  all  things,  endured 
all  things,  did  not  behave  himself  unseemly,  suffered 
long,  and  was  kind.  After  at  least  a  dozen  visits,  in 
which  Matilda  pointed  out  every  disadvantage  of  the 
situation,  to  which  Jonas  ventured  only  to  utter  a  mild 
protest  now  and  then,  they  decided  to  take  the  place  for 
the  season.  Then  began  the  moving  and  settling.  All 
the  furnishings  were  new,  and  instead  of  going  to  look 
and  select  for  herself,  Matilda  stayed  at  home  and  had 
everything  brought  for  her  inspection.  When  Jonas 
brought  what  he  considered  a  piece  of  fine  floor-covering 
or  wall-decoration,  she  turned  and  twisted  it  in  every 
conceivable  way ;  and  if,  after  thoroughly  examining  it, 
she  decided  it  would  do,  she  laid  it  down,  and  Jonas 
picked  it  up  and  fitted  it  into  the  house.  This  did  not 
end  the  matter,  however,  for  as  soon  as  Jonas  came  out 
and  began  to  brush  himself,  Matilda  would  pop  her 
head  in  the  door;  and  if  the  thing  was  not  arranged  to 
her  liking,  she  would  drag  it  out,  and  patient  Jonas  had 
his  work  to  do  over  again.  A  whole  morning  would  often 


271 

be  spent  in  this  way,  Jonas  putting  in  order  and  Matilda 
pulling  to  pieces  some  part  of  the  furniture.  When 
Jonas  brought  home  anything  that  did  not  please 
Matilda,  she  would  snatch  it  from  him,  run  a  short  dis 
tance,  and  toss  it  into  the  air,  so  that  it  would  fall  over 
into  my  yard.  Then  he  would  find  a  choice  dainty  which 
he  would  offer  her,  and  hasten  away  to  get  something 
else  while  she  was  for  the  moment  apparently  good- 
natured. 

In  the  five  weeks  which  it  took  Jonas  to  get  the  house 
in  order,  only  once  was  he  seen  to  rebel  against  Matilda's 
tyranny.  It  was  a  very  hot,  close  morning,  and  he  had 
been  gone  for  at  least  two  hours,  during  which  time 
Matilda  had  done  nothing  but  prance  back  and  forth  in 
front  of  the  house.  Whether  the  material  itself  did  not 
please  her,  or  she  was  angry  because  Jonas  had  been 
gone  so  long,  I  do  not  know,  but  as  soon  as  he  came  in 
sight,  with  a  sharp  exclamation  she  pounced  on  him 
and  tried  to  pull  his  burden  away  from  him.  To  her 
great  astonishment  he  refused  to  let  go  his  hold.  She 
moved  away  a  little,  and  looked  at  him  as  if  she  could 
not  believe  the  evidence  of  her  own  senses.  Then  she 
again  caught  hold  of  one  end  and  tugged  with  all  her 
might,  but  Jonas  held  on  firmly;  and  thus  they  tugged 
and  pulled  for  nearly  five  minutes.  At  last  Matilda 
succeeded  in  wresting  it  from  Jonas,  and  running  with 
it,  endeavored  to  drop  it  into  my  yard;  but  Jonas  was 
too  quick  for  her,  and  caught  it  just  as  it  was  falling. 
Again  they  contended  for  its  possession,  without  either 
gaining  any  advantage,  when  suddenly  Matilda  let  go 
her  hold,  and  going  off  a  little  way  sat  down.  Jonas, 
unexpectedly  finding  himself  the  victor,  seemed  at  first 


272  JONAS  AND   MATILDA 

undecided  what  to  do;  but  after  waiting  a  minute  and 
finding  Matilda  did  not  renew  the  attack,  he  carried  the 
material  into  the  house  and  fitted  it  in  place.  When  he 
came  out  he  waited,  as  was  his  custom,  for  Matilda  to 
inspect  his  work,  but  the  little  minx  never  so  much  as 
looked  toward  the  house. 

After  a  while  Jonas  went  away.  As  soon  as  he  was 
out  of  sight,  Mistress  Matilda  ran  to  the  house,  and  tore 
out,  not  only  what  Jonas  had  just  put  in,  but  also  sev 
eral  other  things,  and  tossed  them,  one  by  one,  into 
my  yard.  Then  she  too  went  away.  Presently  Jonas  re 
turned  with  more  material  for  Matilda,  but  no  Matilda 
was  in  sight.  He  called  several  times,  and  getting  no 
response  peeped  into  the  house.  I  could  not  tell  what 
his  feelings  were  on  beholding  his  dismantled  home,  for 
feelings  cannot  be  seen,  even  with  an  opera-glass;  but 
after  standing  about  for  a  while,  he  laid  his  bundle  down 
and  hurried  away,  and  I  saw  neither  of  them  again  for 
two  days. 

The  second  morning  they  returned  together.  Matilda 
seemed  to  be  in  a  very  peaceful  frame  of  mind,  for  she 
allowed  Jonas  to  repair  the  damage  she  had  wrought  and 
finish  the  furnishings  without  further  interference. 
When  it  was  all  done,  she  refused  to  go  one  step  inside. 
Jonas  coaxed  and  pleaded.  He  went  in  and  out  half  a 
dozen  times,  and  tried  his  best  to  persuade  Matilda  to 
enter;  but  no,  she  would  not  even  cross  the  threshold. 
Finding  all  his  entreaties  of  no  avail,  he  went  away,  and 
returned  with  an  elderly  looking  female,  whom  I  took 
to  be  either  an  aunt  or  a  mother-in-law.  Then  the  two  • 
tried  their  united  eloquence,  the  elderly  female  talking 
as  rapidly  and  volubly  as  a  book-agent,  to  induce  the 


JONAS  AND   MATILDA  273 

obstinate  Matilda  to  set  up  housekeeping;  but  their 
breath  was  thrown  away —  she  refused  to  be  persuaded. 
About  a  week  later  I  saw  Matilda  skip  into  the  house 
and  out  again  in  the  greatest  hurry.  She  tried  this 
several  days  in  succession,  and  after  a  while  concluded 
that  she  might  endure  living  in  the  house. 

Just  at  this  time  I  went  into  the  country  for  a  month : 
but  on  the  evening  of  my  return  almost  my  first  inquiry 
was  for  Jonas  and  Matilda.  What  was  my  surprise  to 
learn  that  they  had  two  babies!  I  thought  that  with 
looking  after  them  and  taking  care  of  the  house  the  little 
mistress  would  have  no  time  to  indulge  any  of  her  dis 
agreeable  characteristics ;  but  I  reckoned  without  know 
ing  all  about  Matilda.  I  took  a  peep  at  my  neighbors  the 
next  morning  before  I  went  down  to  breakfast,  and  what 
did  I  see,  under  the  shade  of  a  blossoming  cherry  tree, 
but  Matilda  serenely  taking  the  morning  air  as  if  she 
had  not  a  care  in  the  world,  while  the  long-suffering 
Jonas  sat  in  the  door  patiently  feeding  the  babies! 

Later  reconnoitring  revealed  the  fact  that  Jonas  was 
still  the  commissary  and  general  caretaker,  and  Matilda 
retained  her  old  office  of  inspector-general;  but  now,  in 
stead  of  furnishings  for  the  house  it  was  supplies  for 
the  larder.  Everything  that  Jonas  brought  home  Ma 
tilda  examined  carefully,  and  if  she  considered  it  unfit 
food  for  the  babies,  promptly  gobbled  it  up  herself, 
without  giving  Jonas  so  much  as  a  taste.  As  for  feeding 
the  little  ones,  I  never  saw  her  give  them  the  tiniest 
crumb.  Jonas  not  only  brought  the  food  and  fed  them, 
but  saw  that  they  were  snugly  tucked  into  their  little 
bed  and  warmly  covered.  It  was  Jonas  who  gave  them 
their  first  lessons  in  locomotion  and  taught  them  every- 


274  JONAS  AND   MATILDA 

thing  else  they  learned;  Matilda,  meanwhile,  looking  on 
with  the  indifference  of  a  disinterested  spectator. 

When  cold  weather  came  they  all  went  away,  as  the 
place  was  not  a  desirable  winter  residence  even  for  an 
English  sparrow  —  for  of  course  you  have  guessed  that 
Jonas  and  Matilda  were  English  sparrows.  Their  home 
was  in  a  knothole  of  the  eaves  of  the  house  next  door. 

I  have  often  wondered  where  Matilda  learned  her 
advanced  ways  of  bird-living.  I  can  think  of  only  one 
possible  explanation.  The  walls  of  the  old  Chapter 
House  on  Carolina  Avenue  were  once  covered  with  ivy, 
which  furnished  quarters  for  hundreds  of  English 
sparrows.  A  year  ago  last  winter,  a  series  of  lectures  was 
given  in  the  hall  of  the  Chapter  House  on  woman  suf 
frage,  and  on  the  rights,  privileges,  and  prerogatives  of 
the  New  Woman.  The  following  spring  the  ivy  was  torn 
from  the  walls,  and  the  sparrows  had  to  seek  new  habita 
tions.  Was  Matilda  one  of  them,  and  had  she  listened 
to  these  lectures  on  the  New  Woman,  and  put  the 
theories  of  the  lecturers  into  practice? 


THE  SCHOOLDAYS  OF  AN  INDIAN  GIRL 

BY  ZITKALA-SA 
I.    THE    LAND    OF    RED    APPLES 

THERE  were  eight  in  our  party  of  bronzed  children 
who  were  going  East  with  the  missionaries.  Among  us 
were  three  young  braves,  two  tall  girls,  and  we  three 
little  ones,  Judewin,  Thowin,  and  I. 

We  had  been  very  impatient  to  start  on  our  journey 
to  the  Red-Apple  Country,  which,  we  were  told,  lay  a 
little  beyond  the  great  circular  horizon  of  the  Western 
prairie.  Under  a  sky  of  rosy  apples  we  dreamt  of  roam 
ing  as  freely  and  happily  as  we  had  chased  the  cloud 
shadows  on  the  Dakota  plains.  We  had  anticipated 
much  pleasure  from  a  ride  on  the  iron  horse,  but  the 
throngs  of  staring  palefaces  disturbed  and  troubled  us. 

On  the  train,  fair  women,  with  tottering  babies  on 
each  arm,  stopped  their  haste  and  scrutinized  the 
children  of  absent  mothers.  Large  men,  with  heavy 
bundles  in  their  hands,  halted  near  by,  and  riveted  their 
glassy  blue  eyes  upon  us. 

I  sank  deep  into  the  corner  of  my  seat,  for  I  resented 
being  watched.  Directly  in  front  of  me,  children  who 
were  no  larger  than  I  hung  themselves  upon  the  backs  of 
their  seats,  with  their  bold  white  faces  toward  me. 
Sometimes  they  took  their  forefingers  out  of  their 
mouths  and  pointed  at  my  moccasined  feet.  Their 
mothers,  instead  of  reproving  such  rude  curiosity,  looked 


276      SCHOOLDAYS  OF  AN  INDIAN  GIRL 

closely  at  me,  and  attracted  their  children's  further 
notice  to  my  blanket.  This  embarrassed  me,  and  kept 
me  constantly  on  the  verge  of  tears. 

I  sat  perfectly  still,  with  my  eyes  downcast,  daring 
only  now  and  then  to  shoot  long  glances  around  me. 
Chancing  to  turn  to  the  window  at  my  side,  I  was  quite 
breathless  upon  seeing  one  familiar  object.  It  was  the 
telegraph  pole  which  strode  by  at  short  paces.  Very 
near  my  mother's  dwelling,  along  the  edge  of  a  road 
thickly  bordered  with  wild  sunflowers,  some  poles  like 
these  had  been  planted  by  white  men.  Often  I  had  stop 
ped,  on  my  way  down  the  road,  to  hold  my  ear  against 
the  pole,  and,  hearing  its  low  moaning,  I  used  to  wonder 
what  the  paleface  had  done  to  hurt  it.  Now  I  sat  watch 
ing  for  each  pole  that  glided  by  to  be  the  last  one. 

In  this  way  I  had  forgotten  my  uncomfortable  sur 
roundings,  when  I  heard  one  of  my  comrades  call  out 
my  name.  I  saw  the  missionary  standing  very  near, 
tossing  candies  and  gums  into  our  midst.  This  amused 
us  all,  and  we  tried  to  see  who  could  catch  the  most  of 
the  sweetmeats.  The  missionary's  generous  distribu 
tion  of  candies  was  impressed  upon  my  memory  by  a 
disastrous  result  which  followed.  I  had  caught  more 
than  my  share  of  candies  and  gums,  and  soon  after  our 
arrival  at  the  school  I  had  a  chance  to  disgrace  myself, 
which,  I  am  ashamed  to  say,  I  did. 

Though  we  rode  several  days  inside  of  the  iron  horse, 
I  do  not  recall  a  single  thing  about  our  luncheons. 

It  was  night  when  we  reached  the  school  grounds. 
The  lights  from  the  windows  of  the  large  buildings  fell 
upon  some  of  the  icicled  trees  that  stood  beneath  them. 
We  were  led  toward  an  open  door,  where  the  brightness 


SCHOOLDAYS  OF  AN  INDIAN  GIRL     277 

of  the  lights  within  flooded  out  over  the  heads  of  the 
excited  palefaces  who  blocked  the  way.  My  body  trem 
bled  more  from  fear  than  from  the  snow  I  trod  upon. 

Entering  the  house,  I  stood  close  against  the  wall. 
The  strong  glaring  light  in  the  large  whitewashed  room 
dazzled  my  eyes.  The  noisy  hurrying  of  hard  shoes  upon 
a  bare  wooden  floor  increased  the  whirring  in  my  ears. 
My  only  safety  seemed  to  be  in  keeping  next  to  the 
wall.  As  I  was  wondering  in  which  direction  to  escape 
from  all  this  confusion,  two  warm  hands  grasped  me 
firmly,  and  in  the  same  moment  I  was  tossed  high  in 
mid-air.  A  rosy-cheeked  paleface  woman  caught  me  in 
her  arms.  I  was  both  frightened  and  insulted  by  such 
trifling.  I  stared  into  her  eyes,  wishing  her  to  let  me 
stand  on  my  own  feet,  but  she  jumped  me  up  and  down 
with  increasing  enthusiasm.  My  mother  had  never 
made  a  plaything  of  her  wee  daughter.  Remembering 
this,  I  began  to  cry  aloud. 

They  misunderstood  the  cause  of  my  tears,  and  placed 
me  at  a  white  table  loaded  with  food.  There  our  party 
were  united  again.  As  I  did  not  hush  my  crying,  one  of 
the  older  ones  whispered  to  me,  "Wait  until  you  are 
alone  in  the  night." 

It  was  very  little  I  could  swallow  besides  my  sobs, 
that  evening. 

"Oh,  I  want  my  mother  and  my  brother  Dawee! 
I  want  to  go  to  my  aunt!"  I  pleaded.  But  the  ears  of 
the  palefaces  could  not  hear  me. 

From  the  table  we  were  taken  along  an  upward  in 
cline  of  wooden  boxes,  which  I  learned  afterward  to  call 
a  stairway.  At  the  top  was  a  quiet  hall,  dimly  lighted. 
Many  narrow  beds  were  in  one  straight  line  down  the 


278    SCHOOLDAYS  OF  AN  INDIAN  GIRL 

entire  length  of  the  wall.  In  them  lay  sleeping  brown 
faces,  which  peeped  just  out  of  the  coverings.  I  was 
tucked  into  bed  with  one  of  the  tall  girls,  because  she 
talked  to  me  in  my  mother  tongue  and  seemed  to 
soothe  me. 

I  had  arrived  in  the  wonderful  land  of  rosy  skies,  but 
I  was  not  happy,  as  I  had  thought  I  should  be.  My 
long  travel  and  the  bewildering  sights  had  exhausted 
me.  I  fell  asleep,  heaving  deep,  tired  sobs.  My  tears 
were  left  to  dry  themselves  in  streaks,  because  neither 
my  aunt  nor  my  mother  was  near  to  wipe  them  away. 

II.    THE  CUTTING  OF  MY  LONG  HAIR 

The  first  day  in  the  land  of  apples  was  a  bitter-cold 
one;  for  the  snow  still  covered  the  ground,  and  the  trees 
were  bare.  A  large  bell  rang  for  breakfast,  its  loud 
metallic  voice  crashing  through  the  belfry  overhead  and 
into  our  sensitive  ears.  The  annoying  clatter  of  shoes  on 
bare  floors  gave  us  no  peace.  The  constant  clash  of 
harsh  noises,  with  an  undercurrent  of  many  voices 
murmuring  an  unknown  tongue,  made  a  bedlam  within 
which  I  was  securely  tied.  And  though  my  spirit  tore 
itself  in  struggling  for  its  lost  freedom,  all  was  useless. 

A  paleface  woman,  with  white  hair,  came  up  after  us. 
We  were  placed  in  a  line  of  girls  who  were  marching  into 
the  dining-room.  These  were  Indian  girls,  in  stiff  shoes 
and  closely  clinging  dresses.  The  small  girls  wore 
sleeved  aprons  and  shingled  hair.  As  I  walked  noise 
lessly  in  my  soft  moccasins,  I  felt  like  sinking  to  the 
floor,  for  my  blanket  had  been  stripped  from  my  shoul 
ders.  I  looked  hard  at  the  Indian  girls,  who  seemed 
not  to  care  that  they  were  even  more  immodestly  dressed 


SCHOOLDAYS  OF  AN  INDIAN  GIRL      279 

than  I,  in  their  tightly  fitting  clothes.  While  we 
marched  in,  the  boys  entered  at  an  opposite  door.  I 
watched  for  the  three  young  braves  who  came  in  our 
party.  I  spied  them  in  the  rear  ranks,  looking  as 
uncomfortable  as  I  felt. 

A  small  bell  was  tapped,  and  each  of  the  pupils  drew 
a  chair  from  under  the  table.  Supposing  this  act  meant 
they  were  to  be  seated,  I  pulled  out  mine  and  at  once 
slipped  into  it  from  one  side.  But  when  I  turned  my 
head,  I  saw  that  I  was  the  only  one  seated,  and  all  the 
rest  at  our  table  remained  standing.  Just  as  I  began  to 
rise,  looking  shyly  around  to  see  how  chairs  were  to  be 
used,  a  second  bell  was  sounded.  All  were  seated  at 
last,  and  I  had  to  crawl  back  into  my  chair  again.  I 
heard  a  man's  voice  at  one  end  of  the  hall,  and  I  looked 
around  to  see  him.  But  all  the  others  hung  their  heads 
over  their  plates.  As  I  glanced  at  the  long  chain  of 
tables,  I  caught  the  eyes  of  a  paleface  woman  upon  me. 
Immediately  I  dropped  my  eyes,  wondering  why  I  was 
so  keenly  watched  by  the  strange  woman.  The  man 
ceased  his  mutterings,  and  then  a  third  bell  was  tapped. 
Everyone  eating.  I  began  crying  instead,  for  by  this 
time  I  was  afraid  to  venture  anything  more. 

But  this  eating  by  formula  was  not  the  hardest  trial  in 
that  first  day.  Late  in  the  morning,  my  friend  Judewin 
gave  me  a  terrible  warning.  Judewin  knew  a  few  words 
of  English,  and  she  had  overheard  the  paleface  woman 
talk  about  cutting  our  long,  heavy  hair.  Our  mothers 
had  taught  us  that  only  unskilled  warriors  who  were 
captured  had  their  hair  shingled  by  the  enemy.  Among 
our  people  short  hair  was  worn  by  mourners,  and 
shingled  hair  by  cowards! 


280      SCHOOLDAYS  OF  AN  INDIAN  GIRL 

We  discussed  our  fate  some  moments,  and  when 
Judewin  said,  "We  have  to  submit,  because  they  are 
strong, "  I  rebelled. 

"No,  I  will  not  submit!  I  will  struggle  first!"  I 
answered. 

I  watched  my  chance,  and  when  no  one  noticed  I 
disappeared.  I  crept  up  the  stairs  as  quietly  as  I  could 
in  my  squeaking  shoes  —  my  moccasins  had  been  ex 
changed  for  shoes.  Along  the  hall  I  passed,  without 
knowing  whither  I  was  going.  Turning  aside  to  an  open 
door,  I  found  a  large  room  with  three  white  beds  in  it. 
The  windows  were  covered  with  dark  green  curtains, 
which  made  the  room  very  dim.  Thankful  that  no  one 
was  there,!  directed  my  steps  toward  the  corner  farthest 
from  the  door.  On  my  hands  and  knees  I  crawled  under 
the  bed,  and  cuddled  myself  in  the  dark  corner. 

From  my  hiding-place  I  peered  out,  shuddering  with 
fear  whenever  I  heard  footsteps  near  by.  Though  in  the 
hall  loud  voices  were  calling  my  name,  and  I  knew 
that  even  Judewin  was  searching  for  me,  I  did  not  open 
my  mouth  to  answer.  Then  the  steps  were  quickened  and 
the  voices  became  excited.  The  sounds  came  nearer  and 
nearer.  Women  and  girls  entered  the  room.  I  held  my 
breath,  and  watched  them  open  closet  doors  and  peep 
behind  large  trunks.  Someone  threw  up  the  curtains, 
and  the  room  was  filled  with  sudden  light.  What  caused 
them  to  stoop  and  look  under  the  bed,  I  do  not  know. 
I  remember  being  dragged  out,  though  I  resisted  by 
kicking  and  scratching  wildly.  In  spite  of  myself,  I  was 
carried  downstairs  and  tied  fast  in  a  chair. 

I  cried  aloud,  shaking  my  head  all  the  while  until  I 
felt  the  cold  blades  of  the  scissors  against  my  neck,  and 


heard  them  gnaw  off  one  of  my  thick  braids.  Then  I 
lost  my  spirit.  Since  the  day  I  was  taken  from  my 
mother  I  had  suffered  extreme  indignities.  People  had 
stared  at  me.  I  had  been  tossed  about  in  the  air  like  a 
wooden  puppet.  And  now  my  long  hair  was  shingled 
like  a  coward's!  In  my  anguish  I  moaned  for  my 
mother,  but  no  one  came  to  comfort  me.  Not  a  soul 
reasoned  quietly  with  me,  for  now  I  was  only  one  of 
many  little  animals  driven  by  a  herder. 

III.    THE    DEVIL 

Among  the  legends  the  old  warriors  used  to  tell  me 
were  many  stories  of  evil  spirits.  But  I  was  taught  to 
fear  them  no  more  than  those  who  stalked  about  in 
material  guise.  I  never  knew  there  was  an  insolent 
chieftain  among  the  bad  spirits,  who  dared  to  array  his 
forces  against  the  Great  Spirit,  until  I  heard  this  white 
man's  legend  from  a  paleface  woman. 

Out  of  a  large  book  she  showed  me  a  picture  of  the 
white  man's  devil.  I  looked  in  horror  upon  the  strong 
claws  that  grew  out  of  his  fur-covered  fingers.  His  feet 
were  like  his  hands.  Trailing  at  his  heels  was  a  scaly  tail 
tipped  with  a  serpent's  open  jaws.  His  face  was  a  patch 
work:  he  had  bearded  cheeks,  like  some  I  had  seen  pale 
faces  wear;  his  nose  was  an  eagle's  bill,  and  his  sharp- 
pointed  ears  were  pricked  up  like  those  of  a  sly  fox. 
Above  them  a  pair  of  cow's  horns  curved  upward.  I 
trembled  with  awe,  and  my  heart  throbbed  in  my 
throat,  as  I  looked  at  the  king  of  evil  spirits.  Then  I 
heard  the  paleface  woman  say  that  this  terrible  creature 
roamed  loose  in  the  world,  and  that  little  girls  who  dis 
obeyed  school  regulations  were  to  be  tortured  by  him. 


282      SCHOOLDAYS  OF  AN  INDIAN  GIRL 

That  night  I  dreamed  about  this  evil  divinity.  Once 
again  I  seemed  to  be  in  my  mother's  cottage.  An  Indian 
woman  had  come  to  visit  my  mother.  On  opposite  sides 
of  the  kitchen  stove,  which  stood  in  the  centre  of  the 
small  house,  my  mother  and  her  guest  were  seated  in 
straight-backed  chairs.  I  played  with  a  train  of  empty 
spools  hitched  together  on  a  string.  It  was  night,  and 
the  wick  burned  feebly.  Suddenly  I  heard  someone 
turn  our  door-knob  from  without. 

My  mother  and  the  woman  hushed  their  talk,  and 
both  looked  toward  the  door.  It  opened  gradually.  I 
waited  behind  the  stove.  The  hinges  squeaked  as  the 
door  was  slowly,  very  slowly  pushed  inward. 

Then  in  rushed  the  devil!  He  was  tall!  He  looked 
exactly  like  the  picture  I  had  seen  of  him  in  the  white 
man's  papers.  He  did  not  speak  to  my  mother,  be 
cause  he  did  not  know  the  Indian  language,  but  his 
glittering  yellow  eyes  were  fastened  upon  me.  He 
took  long  strides  around  the  stove,  passing  behind 
the  woman's  chair.  I  threw  down  my  spools  and  ran  to 
my  mother.  He  did  not  fear  her,  but  followed  closely 
after  me.  Then  I  ran  round  and  round  the  stove,  crying 
aloud  for  help.  But  my  mother  and  the  woman  seemed 
not  to  know  my  danger.  They  sat  still,  looking  quietly 
upon  the  devil's  chase  after  me.  At  last  I  grew  dizzy. 
My  head  revolved  as  on  a  hidden  pivot.  My  knees  be 
came  numb,  and  doubled  under  my  weight  like  a  pair 
of  knife-blades  without  a  spring.  Beside  my  mother's 
chair  I  fell  in  a  heap.  Just  as  the  devil  stooped  over  me 
with  outstretched  claws,  my  mother  awoke  from  her 
quiet  indifference  and  lifted  me  on  her  lap.  Whereupon 
the  devil  vanished,  and  I  was  awake. 


SCHOOLDAYS   OF  AN  INDIAN  GIRL      283 

On  the  following  morning  I  took  my  revenge  upon  the 
devil.  Stealing  into  the  room  where  a  wall  of  shelves  was 
rilled  with  books,  I  drew  forth  the  "Stories  of  the 
Bible."  With  a  broken  slate  pencil  I  carried  in  my  apron 
pocket,  I  began  by  scratching  out  his  wicked  eyes.  A 
few  moments  later,  when  I  was  ready  to  leave  the  room, 
there  was  a  ragged  hole  in  the  page  where  the  picture  of 
the  devil  had  once  been. 

IV.    INCURRING    MY    MOTHER'S    DISPLEASURE 

In  the  second  journey  to  the  East  I  had  not  come 
without  some  precautions.  I  had  a  secret  interview  with 
one  of  our  best  medicine  men,  and  when  I  left  his  wig 
wam  I  carried  securely  in  my  sleeve  a  tiny  bunch  of 
magic  roots.  This  possession  assured  me  of  friends 
wherever  I  should  go.  So  absolutely  did  I  believe  in  its 
charms  that  I  wore  it  for  more  than  a  year.  Then,  be 
fore  I  lost  my  faith  in  the  dead  roots,  I  lost  the  little 
buckskin  bag  containing  all  my  good  luck. 

At  the  close  of  this  second  term  of  three  years  I  was 
the  proud  owner  of  my  first  diploma.  The  following 
autumn  I  ventured  upon  a  college  career  against  my 
mother's  will. 

I  had  written  for  her  approval,  but  in  her  reply  I 
found  no  encouragement.  She  called  my  notice  to  her 
neighbors'  children,  who  had  completed  their  education 
in  three  years.  They  had  returned  to  their  homes,  and 
were  then  talking  English  with  the  frontier  settlers. 
Her  few  words  hinted  that  I  had  better  give  up  my  slow 
attempt  to  learn  the  white  man's  ways,  and  be  content 
to  roam  over  the  prairies  and  find  my  living  upon  wild 
roots.  I  silenced  her  by  deliberate  disobedience. 


284      SCHOOLDAYS  OF  AN  INDIAN   GIRL 

Thus,  homeless  and  heavy-hearted,  I  began  anew  my 
life  among  strangers. 

As  I  hid  myself  in  my  little  room  in  the  college  dor 
mitory,  away  from  the  scornful  and  yet  curious  eyes  of 
the  students,  I  pined  for  sympathy.  Often  I  wept  in 
secret,  wishing  I  had  gone  West,  to  be  nourished  by  my 
mother's  love,  instead  of  remaining  among  a  cold  race 
whose  hearts  were  frozen  hard  with  prejudice. 

During  the  fall  and  winter  seasons  I  scarcely  had  a 
real  friend,  though  by  that  time  several  of  my  class 
mates  were  courteous  to  me  at  a  safe  distance. 

My  mother  had  not  yet  forgiven  my  rudeness  to  her, 
and  I  had  no  moment  for  letter- writing.  By  daylight  and 
lamplight,  I  spun  with  reeds  and  thistles,  until  my  hands 
were  tired  from  their  weaving,  the  magic  design  which 
promised  me  the  white  man's  respect. 

At  length,  in  the  spring  term,  I  entered  an  oratorical 
contest  among  the  various  classes.  As  the  day  of  compe 
tition  approached,  it  did  not  seem  possible  that  the 
event  was  so  near  at  hand,  but  it  came.  In  the  chapel 
the  classes  assembled  together,  with  their  invited  guests. 
The  high  platform  was  carpeted,  and  gayly  festooned 
with  college  colors.  A  bright  white  light  illumined  the 
room,  and  outlined  clearly  the  great  polished  beams 
that  arched  the  domed  ceiling.  The  assembled  crowds 
filled  the  air  with  pulsating  murmurs.  When  the  hour 
for  speaking  arrived,  all  were  hushed.  But  on  the  wall 
the  old  clock  which  pointed  out  the  trying  moment 
ticked  calmly  on. 

One  after  another  I  saw  and  heard  the  orators.  Still, 
I  could  not  realize  that  they  longed  for  the  favorable  de 
cision  of  the  judges  as  much  as  I  did.  Each  contestant 


SCHOOLDAYS   OF  AN  INDIAN  GIRL      285 

received  a  loud  burst  of  applause,  and  some  were  cheered 
heartily.  Too  soon  my  turn  came,  and  I  paused  a  mo 
ment  behind  the  curtains  for  a  deep  breath.  After  my 
concluding  words,  I  heard  the  same  applause  that  the 
others  had  called  out. 

Upon  my  retreating  steps,  I  was  astounded  to  receive 
from  my  fellow  students  a  large  bouquet  of  roses  tied 
with  flowing  ribbons.  With  the  lovely  flowers  I  fled 
from  the  stage.  This  friendly  token  was  a  rebuke  to  me 
for  the  hard  feelings  I  had  borne  them. 

Later,  the  decision  of  the  judges  awarded  me  the  first 
place.  Then  there  was  a  mad  uproar  in  the  hall,  where 
my  classmates  sang  and  shouted  my  name  at  the  top  of 
their  lungs;  and  the  disappointed  students  howled  and 
brayed  in  fearfully  dissonant  tin  trumpets.  In  this 
excitement  happy  students  rushed  forward  to  offer  their 
congratulations.  And  I  could  not  conceal  a  smile  when 
they  wished  to  escort  me  in  a  procession  to  the  students' 
parlor,  where  all  were  going,  to  calm  themselves. 
Thanking  them  for  the  kind  spirit  which  prompted 
them  to  make  such  a  proposition,  I  walked  alone  with 
the  night  to  my  own  little  room. 

A  few  weeks  afterward,  I  appeared  as  the  college 
representative  in  another  contest.  This  time  the  compe 
tition  was  among  orators  from  different  colleges  in  our 
state.  It  was  held  at  the  state  capital,  in  one  of  the 
largest  opera  houses. 

Here  again  was  a  strong  prejudice  against  my  people. 
In  the  evening,  as  the  great  audience  filled  the  house, 
the  student  bodies  began  warring  among  themselves. 
Fortunately  I  was  spared  witnessing  any  of  the  noisy 
wrangling  before  the  contest  began.  The  slurs  against 


286      SCHOOLDAYS  OF  AN  INDIAN  GIRL 

the  Indian  that  stained  the  lips  of  our  opponents  were 
already  burning  like  a  dry  fever  within  my  breast. 

But  after  the  orations  were  delivered  a  deeper  burn 
awaited  me.  There,  before  that  vast  ocean  of  eyes, 
some  college  rowdies  threw  out  a  large  white  flag,  with 
a  drawing  of  a  most  forlorn  Indian  girl  on  it.  Under 
this  they  had  printed  in  bold  black  letters  words  that 
ridiculed  the  college  which  was  represented  by  a 
"squaw."  Such  worse  than  barbarian  rudeness  em 
bittered  me.  While  we  waited  for  the  verdict  of  the 
judges,  I  gleamed  fiercely  upon  the  throngs  of  palefaces. 
My  teeth  were  hard  set,  as  I  saw  the  white  flag  still 
floating  insolently  in  the  air. 

Then  anxiously  we  watched  the  man  carry  toward 
the  stage  the  envelope  containing  the  final  decision. 

There  were  two  prizes  given,  that  night,  and  one  of 
them  was  mine! 

The  evil  spirit  laughed  within  me  when  the  white 
flag  dropped  out  of  sight,  and  the  hands  which  furled  it 
hung  limp  in  defeat. 

Leaving  the  crowd  as  quickly  as  possible,  I  was  soon 
in  my  room.  The  rest  of  the  night  I  sat  in  an  armchair 
and  gazed  into  the  crackling  fire.  I  laughed  no  more  in 
triumph  when  thus  alone.  The  little  taste  of  victory 
did  not  satisfy  a  hunger  in  my  heart.  In  my  mind  I  saw 
my  mother  far  away  on  the  Western  plains,  and  she  was 
holding  a  charge  against  me. 


CURBSTONE  THEATRICALS 

THE  CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 

I  ONCE  told  the  Club  of  various  children  encountered 
in  city  streets,  each  of  whom,  though 

Like  the  snow-fall  in  the  river, 

A  moment  white,  then  melts  forever, 

had  nevertheless  in  that  moment  contrived  to  win  upon 
my  affections.  The  snowflake  melts  forever,  but  other 
snowflakes  come,  and  now  I  am  again  begging  listeners 
for  a  small  budget  of  news  from  the  pavement. 

One  day,  as  I  was  walking  up  Broadway  from  the 
Battery,  my  attention  was  attracted  by  a  tenement- 
house  little  girl  swinging  along  before  me.  She  was,  I 
suppose,  about  ten  years  old  —  ragged,  certainly  not 
clean,  though  still  not  looking  altogether  uncared-for. 
What  caught  my  eye  was  the  enjoying,  free,  unconscious 
gusto  with  which  she  was  taking  life.  Her  movement, 
the  expression  of  her  back  (which  was  all  I  saw),  fairly 
sang  the  fact  aloud,  to  a  simple-minded  tune. 

I  kept  her  in  sight  for  some  minutes,  and  then  Real 
Life,  who  sometimes  for  a  moment  shows  the  instinct  of 
an  artist,  favored  me  with  one  glimpse  of  my  heroine 
doing  something  in  character.  She  stopped  at  an  old 
woman's  apple-stand,  laid  down  a  coin,  took  up  an 
apple,  and  set  her  teeth  in  it  instantly.  As  she  accom 
plished  her  bite,  the  old  woman  held  out  her  change  to 
her.  You  will  live  long  before  you  see  anything  more 


CURBSTONE  THEATRICALS 


sweetly  magnificent  than  the  gesture  and  movement 
with  which  my  Lady  Bountiful,  without  turning  her 
rough  little  head,  gently  pushed  back  the  change-laden 
hand  and  went  swiftly  on  her  way.  The  tender,  joyous 
pride  of  it  was  enough  to  give  one  hysterics,  between* 
laughing  and  crying. 

But,  fortunately  doubtless,  our  sensibility  to  mere 
spectacle  in  life  rarely  so  far  overcomes  us;  and  as  for 
me,  on  this  occasion,  I  only  hurried  on  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  Lady  Bountiful's  face,  but  I  never  caught 
it.  In  a  moment  she  plunged  into  a  little  crowd  gath 
ered  about  something  —  I  don't  know  what  —  in  the 
street;  and  the  last  I  saw  of  her,  she  —  still  eating  her 
apple  —  was  gallantly  working  her  way  to  its  front  with 
a  zeal  and  courage  I  could  not  imitate. 

Not  long  ago  I  watched  from  my  window  a  more 
complex  case  of  infantine  charity.  A  much-disheveled, 
shabby  woman  had  come  along  and  seated  herself  in  a 
doorway  opposite.  Mine  is  not  a  neighborhood  too  fine 
to  let  many  of  its  children  play  in  the  street,  and  soon 
there  gathered  about  the  sorry  wayfarer  a  curious  group 
of  them.  I  suppose  they  soon  might  have  been  pelting 
her  with  stones,  but  I  find  the  fact  that  they  became 
very  differently  occupied  illustrative  not  only  of  the 
plasticity  of  children,  but  of  the  impressionability  of  the 
race.  This  "drunk  lady,"  as  they  doubtless  called  her, 
despite  the  lingering  disqualifications  of  the  intoxica 
tion  from  which  she  was  plainly  but  just  emerging,  had 
even  now  a  genius  for  managing  mankind.  She  had  so 
far  come  to  herself  as  to  desire  a  respectable  appearance. 
It  was  to  attain  this  laudable  ambition  and  some  others 
that  she  engaged  the  children's  assistance.  She  took 


CURBSTONE   THEATRICALS  289 

off  her  hat,  let  down  her  hair,  drew  from  her  pocket  a 
folded  white  apron,  which  she  shook  out  carefully  and 
laid  on  a  fold  of  her  dress  beside  her,  and  all  the  time 
she  held  her  growing  audience  in  what  must  have  been 
fascinating  conversation.  I  wish  I  could  have  heard  it. 
The  existence  of  her  charm  was  further  attested  in  three 
minutes  by  the  eagerness  with  which  competing  mes 
sengers  sped  upon  her  errands.  One  came  back  with  a 
wet  handkerchief;  another  with  a  comb  (!);  another, 
though  the  drunk  lady  had  furnished  no  pennies,  with  a 
bunch  of  radishes,  obtained,  as  I  saw,  at  the  corner 
grocery.  She  at  once  sent  another  child  for  salt,  as 
the  event  proved;  then  wiped  her  face  and  hands  well 
with  the  handkerchief,  and  gave  her  attention  to  re 
shaping  her  battered  hat  and  fastening  properly  its 
trimmings,  getting  pins  from  sympathetic  boys  as  well 
as  girls. 

When  the  salt  came,  she  made  a  modest  meal,  sharing 
it  with  no  one;  but  those  children  hung  around  her,  not 
familiarly,  but  with  a  touch  of  awe,  while  she  ate,  as  if 
the  sight  were  in  some  occult  way  a  feast  for  their  souls. 
She  needed  more  pins  than  they  could  furnish  on  the 
spot,  and  when,  her  radishes  eaten,  she  returned  to  the 
c.are  of  her  toilet,  raiders  on  the  domestic  stock  of  various 
homes  brought  them  to  her,  and  hairpins  as  well.  The 
ardor  and  devotion  of  her  ministers  did  not  flag  during 
the  half -hour  she  stayed  among  them;  and  when,  finally, 
vastly  changed  in  appearance,  she  took  herself  off,  I  had 
not  a  doubt  that  the  change  helped  her  incalculably  to 
make  her  peace  with  whomsoever  she  wished  to  concil 
iate.  The  children  followed  her  to  the  corner,  where, 
evidently  at  a  word  from  her  thrown  over  her  shoulder, 


290 


CURBSTONE  THEATRICALS 


aiid  without  further  pantomime  of  leave-taking,  they 
stopped,  and  watched  her  out  of  sight. 

I  was  glad  and  grateful  when  she  gave  that  word, 
"Thus  far  and  no  farther, "  for  I  had  made  up  my  mind 
that  she  was  the  last  incarnation  of  the  Pied  Piper  of 
Hamelin,  and  that  if  she  would,  she  might  leave  us 
with  not  a  little  girl  or  boy  to  bless  ourselves  with  for 
blocks  around. 


THE  WORD 

BY  JOHN  KENDRICK  BANGS 

TO-DAY,  whatever  may  annoy, 

The  word  for  me  is  Joy,  just  simple  Joy: 

The  joy  of  life; 

The  joy  of  children  and  of  wife; 

The  joy  of  bright  blue  skies; 

The  joy  of  rain ;  the  glad  surprise 

Of  twinkling  stars  that  shine  at  night; 

The  joy  of  winged  things  upon  their  flight; 

The  joy  of  noon-day,  and  the  tried 

True  joyousness  of  eventide; 

The  joy  of  labor,  and  of  mirth ; 

The  joy  of  air,  and  sea,  and  earth— 

The  countless  joys  that  ever  flow  from  Him 

Whose  vast  beneficence  doth  dim 

The  lustrous  light  of  day, 

And  lavish  gifts  divine  upon  our  way. 
Whate'er  there  be  of  Sorrow 
I  '11  put  off  till  To-morrow, 

And  when  To-morrow  comes,  why  then 

'T  will  be  To-day  and  Joy  again ! 


PAN  THE  FALLEN 

BY  WILLIAM  WILFRED   CAMPBELL 

HE  wandered  into  the  market 

With  pipes  and  goatish  hoof; 

He  wandered  in  a  grotesque  shape, 

And  no  one  stood  aloof. 

For  the  children  crowded  round  him, 

The  wives  and  graybeards,  too, 

To  crack  their  jokes  and  have  their  mirth, 

And  see  what  Pan  would  do. 

The  Pan  he  was  they  knew  him, 

Part  man,  but  mostly  beast, 

Who  drank,  and  lied,  and  snatched  what  bones 

Men  threw  him  from  their  feast; 

Who  seemed  in  sin  so  merry, 

So  careless  in  his  woe, 

That  men  despised,  scarce  pitied  him, 

And  still  would  have  it  so. 

He  swelled  his  pipes  and  thrilled  them, 

And  drew  the  silent  tear; 

He  made  the  gravest  clack  with  mirth 

By  his  sardonic  leer. 

He  blew  his  pipes  full  sweetly 

At  their  amused  demands, 

And  caught  the  scornful,  earth-flung  pence 

That  fell  from  careless  hands. 


PAN  THE   FALLEN  293 

He  saw  the  mob's  derision, 

And  took  it  kindly,  too, 

And  when  an  epithet  was  flung, 

A  coarser  back  he  threw; 

But  under  all  the  masking 

Of  a  brute,  unseemly  part, 

I  looked,  and  saw  a  wounded  soul  * 

And  a  godlike,  breaking  heart. 

And  back  of  the  elfin  music, 

The  burlesque,  clownish  play, 

I  knew  a  wail  that  the  weird  pipes  made, 

A  look  that  was  far  away  — 

A  gaze  into  some  far  heaven 

Whence  a  soul  had  fallen  down; 

But  the  mob  saw  only  the  grotesque  beast 

And  the  antics  of  the  clown. 

For  scant-flung  pence  he  paid  them 

With  mirth  and  elfin  play, 

Till,  tired  for  a  time  of  his  antics  queer, 

They  passed  and  went  their  way; 

Then  there  in  the  empty  market 

He  ate  his  scanty  crust, 

And,  tired  face  turned  to  heaven,  down 

He  laid  him  in  the  dust. 

And  over  his  wild,  strange  features 

A  softer  light  there  fell, 

And  on  his  worn,  earth-driven  heart 

A  peace  ineffable. 

And  the  moon  rose  over  the  market, 

But  Pan  the  beast  was  dead; 

While  Pan  the  god  lay  silent  there, 

With  his  strange,  distorted  head. 


294  PAN  THE   FALLEN 

And  the  people,  when  they  found  him, 

Stood  still  with  awesome  fear. 

No  more  they  saw  the  beast's  rude  hoof, 

The  furtive,  clownish  leer; 

But  the  lightest  in  that  audience 

Went  silent  from  the  place, 

For  they  knew  the  look  of  a  god  released 

That  shone  from  his  dead  face. 


LOVE  IS  ALWAYS  HERE 

(Toujours  Amour) 
BY  EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN 

PRITHEE  tell  me,  Dimple-Chin, 
At  what  age  does  Love  begin? 
Your  blue  eyes  have  scarcely  seen 
Summers  three,  my  fairy  queen, 
But  a  miracle  of  sweets, 
Soft  approaches,  sly  retreats, 
Show  the  little  archer  there, 
Hidden  in  your  pretty  hair : 
When  didst  learn  a  heart  to  win? 
Prithee  tell  me,  Dimple-Chin! 

"Oh!"  the  rosy  lips  reply, 
"I  can't  tell  you  if  I  try! 

'Tis  so  long  I  can't  remember; 

Ask  some  younger  miss  than  I!" 

Tell,  O  tell  me,  Grizzled-Face, 
Do  your  heart  and  head  keep  pace? 
When  does  hoary  Love  expire? 
When  do  frosts  put  out  the  fire? 
Can  its  embers  burn  below 
All  that  chill  December  snow? 
Care  you  still  soft  hands  to  press, 
Bonny  heads  to  smooth  and  bless? 


TERMONDE  (destroyed) 


THE   CHIMES   OF  TERMONDE          297 

When  does  Love  give  up  the  chase? 
Tell,  O  tell  me,  Grizzled-Face! 

"Ah!"  the  wise  old  lips  reply, 

"Youth  may  pass  and  strength  may  die; 

But  of  Love  I  can't  foretoken; 

Ask  some  older  Sage  than  I!" 


THE   CHIMES   OF   TERMONDE 

BY  GRACE  HAZARD  CONKLING 

THE  groping  spires  have  lost  the  sky, 

That  reach  from  Termonde  town; 
There  are  no  bells  to  travel  by, 

The  minster  chimes  are  down. 
It 's  forth  we  must,  alone,  alone, 

And  try  to  find  the  way; 
The  bells  that  we  have  always  known, 

War  broke  their  hearts  to-day. 

They  used  to  call  the  morning 

Along  the  gilded  street, 
And  then  their  rhymes  were  laughter, 

And  all  their  notes  were  sweet. 

I  heard  them  stumble  down  the  air 

Like  seraphim  betrayed; 
God  must  have  heard  their  broken  prayer 

That  made  my  soul  afraid. 


298         THE   CHIMES  OF  TERMONDE 

The  Termonde  bells  are  gone,  are  gone, 

And  what  is  left  to  say? 
It 's  forth  we  must,  by  bitter  dawn, 

To  try  to  find  the  way. 

They  used  to  call  the  children 
To  go  to  sleep  at  night; 

And  then  their  songs  were  tender 
And  drowsy  with  delight. 

The  wind  will  look  for  them  in  vain 

Within  the  empty  tower. 
We  shall  not  hear  them  sing  again 

At  dawn  or  twilight  hour. 
It's  forth  we  must,  away,  away, 

And  far  from  Termonde  town, 
But  this  is  all  I  know  to-day — 

The  chimes,  the  chimes  are  down ! 

They  used  to  ring  at  evening 
To  help  the  people  pray, 

Who  wander  now  bewildered 
And  cannot  find  the  way. 


A  PUPIL  OF  AGASSIZ 

BY  NATHANIEL  SOUTHGATE  SHALER 

WHEN  I  first  met  Louis  Agassiz,  he  was  still  in  the 
prime  of  his  admirable  manhood;  though  he  was  then 
fifty-two  years  old,  and  had  passed  his  constructive 
period,  he  still  had  the  look  of  a  young  man.  His  face 
was  the  most  genial  and  engaging  that  I  had  ever  seen, 
and  his  manner  captivated  me  altogether.  But  as  I  had 
been  among  men  who  had  a  free  swing,  and  for  a  year 
among  people  who  seemed  to  me  to  be  cold  and  super- 
rational,  hungry  as  I  doubtless  was  for  human  sym 
pathy,  Agassiz's  welcome  went  to  my  heart  —  I  was  at 
once  his  captive.  It  has  been  my  good  chance  to  see 
many  men  of  engaging  presence  and  ways,  but  I  have 
never  known  his  equal. 

As  the  personal  quality  of  Agassiz  was  the  greatest  of 
his  powers,  and  as  my  life  was  greatly  influenced  by  my 
immediate  and  enduring  affection  for  him,  I  am  tempted 
to  set  forth  some  incidents  which  show  that  my  swift 
devotion  to  my  new-found  master  was  not  due  to  the 
accidents  of  the  situation  or  to  any  boyish  fancy.  I 
will  content  myself  with  one  of  those  stories,  which  will 
of  itself  show  how  easily  he  captivated  men,  even  those 
of  the  ruder  sort. 

Some  years  after  we  came  together,  when  indeed  I 
was  formally  his  assistant,  I  believe  it  was  in  1866,  he 
became  much  interested  in  the  task  of  comparing  the 


300  A  PUPIL  OF  AGASSIZ 

skeletons  of  thoroughbred  horses  with  those  of  common 
stock.  I  had  at  his  request  tried,  but  without  success,  to 
obtain  the  bones  of  certain  famous  stallions  from  my 
acquaintances  among  the  racing  men  in  Kentucky. 
Early  one  morning  there  was  a  fire,  supposed  to  be  in 
cendiary,  in  the  stables  at  the  Beacon  Park  track,  a  mile 
from  the  College,  in  which  a  number  of  horses  had  been 
killed  and  many  badly  scorched.  I  had  just  returned 
from  the  place,  where  I  had  left  a  mob  of  irate  owners 
and  jockeys  in  a  violent  state  of  mind,  intent  on  finding 
someone  to  hang.  I  had  seen  the  chance  of  getting  a 
valuable  lot  of  stallions  for  the  museum,  but  it  was 
evident  that  the  time  was  most  inopportune  for  suggest 
ing  such  a  disposition  of  the  remains.  Had  I  done  so, 
the  results  would  have  been,  to  say  the  least,  unpleasant. 

As  I  came  away  from  the  profane  lot  of  horsemen 
gathered  about  the  ruins  of  their  fortunes  or  their  hopes, 
I  met  Agassiz  almost  running  to  seize  the  chance  of 
specimens.  I  told  him  to  come  back  with  me:  that  we 
must  wait  until  the  mob  had  spent  its  rage ;  but  he  kept 
on.  I  told  him  further  that  he  risked  spoiling  his  good 
chance,  and,  finally,  that  he  would  have  his  head 
punched;  but  he  trotted  on.  I  went  with  him,  in  the 
hope  that  I  might  protect  him  from  the  consequences  of 
his  curiosity. 

When  we  reached  the  spot,  there  came  about  a 
marvel :  in  a  moment  he  had  all  those  raging  men  at  his 
command.  He  went  at  once  to  work  with  the  horses 
which  had  been  hurt  but  were  savable.  His  intense  sym 
pathy  with  the  creatures,  his  knowledge  of  the  remedies 
to  be  applied,  his  immediate  appropriation  of  the  whole 
situation,  of  which  he  was  at  once  the  master,  made 


A  PUPIL  OF  AGASSIZ  301 

those  rude  folks  at  once  his  friends.  Nobody  asked 
who  he  was,  for  the  good  reason  that  he  was  heart  and 
soul  of  them.  When  the  task  of  helping  was  done, 
Agassiz  skillfully  came  to  the  point  of  his  business,  — 
the  skeletons,  —  and  this  so  dexterously  and  sympa 
thetically  that  the  men  were,  it  seemed,  ready  to  turn 
over  the  living  as  well  as  the  dead  beasts  for  his  service. 
I  have  seen  a  lot  of  human  doing,  much  of  it  critically, 
as  actor  or  near  observer,  but  this  was  in  many  ways  the 
greatest.  The  supreme  art  of  it  was  in  the  use  of  a 
perfectly  spontaneous  and  most  actually  sympathetic 
motive  to  gain  an  end.  With  others,  this  state  of  mind 
would  lead  to  affection;  with  him,  it  in  no  wise  dimin 
ished  the  quality  of  the  emotion.  He  could  measure  the 
value  of  the  motive,  but  do  it  without  lessening  its 
moral  import. 

As  my  account  of  Agassiz's  quality  should  rest  upon 
my  experiences  with  him,  I  shall  now  go  on  to  tell  how 
and  to  wiiat  effect  he  trained  me.  In  that  day  there 
were  no  written  examinations  on  any  subjects  which 
candidates  for  the  Lawrence  Scientific  School  had  to 
pass.  The  professors  in  charge  of  the  several  depart 
ments  questioned  the  candidates  and  determined  their 
fitness  to  pursue  the  course  of  study  they  desired  to 
undertake.  Few  or  none  who  had  any  semblance  of  an 
education  were  denied  admission  to  Agassiz's  laboratory. 
At  that  time  the  instructors  had,  in  addition  to  their 
meagre  salaries,  —  his  was  then  $2500  per  annum,  — 
the  regular  fees  paid  in  by  the  students  under  their 
charge.  So  I  was  promptly  assured  that  I  was  admitted. 
Be  it  said,  however,  that  he  did  give  me  an  effective  oral 
examination,  which,  as  he  told  me,  was  intended  to  show 


302  A  PUPIL  OF  AGASSIZ 

whether  I  could  expect  to  go  forward  to  a  degree  at  the 
end  of  four  years  of  study.  On  this  matter  of  the  degree 
he  was  obdurate,  refusing  to  recommend  some  who  had 
been  with  him  for  many  years  and  had  succeeded  in  their 
special  work,  giving  as  reason  for  his  denial  that  they 
were  "too  ignorant." 

The  examination  Agassiz  gave  me  was  directed  first 
to  find  that  I  knew  enough  Latin  and  Greek  to  make  use 
of  those  languages;  that  I  could  patter  a  little  of  them 
evidently  pleased  him.  He  did  n't  care  for  those  de 
testable  rules  for  scanning.  Then  came  German  and 
French,  which  were  also  approved:  I  could  read  both, 
and  spoke  the  former  fairly  well.  He  did  not  probe  me 
in  my  weakest  place,  mathematics,  for  the  good  reason 
that,  badly  as  I  was  off  in  that  subject,  he  was  in  a  worse 
plight.  Then,  asking  me  concerning  my  reading,  he 
found  that  I  had  read  the  essay  on  classification  and  had 
noted  in  it  the  influence  of  Schelling's  views.  Most  of 
his  questioning  related  to  this  field,  and  the  more  than 
fair  beginning  of  our  relations  then  made  was  due  to 
the  fact  that  I  had  some  enlargement  on  that  side.  So, 
too,  he  was  pleased  to  find  that  I  had  managed  a  lot  of 
Latin,  Greek,  and  German  poetry,  and  had  been  trained 
with  the  sword.  He  completed  this  inquiry  by  requiring 
that  I  bring  my  foils  and  mask  for  a  bout.  In  this  test 
he  did  not  fare  well,  for,  though  not  untrained,  he 
evidently  knew  more  of  the  Schldger  than  of  the  rapier. 
He  was  heavy-handed  and  lacked  finesse.  This,  with  my 
previous  experience,  led  me  to  the  conclusion  that  I  had 
struck  upon  a  kind  of  tutor  in  Cambridge  not  known  in 
Kentucky. 

While  Agassiz  questioned  me  carefully  as  to  what  I 


A  PUPIL  OF  AGASSIZ  303 

had  read  and  what  I  had  seen,  he  seemed  in  this  pre 
liminary  going-over  in  no  wise  concerned  to  find  what  I 
knew  about  fossils,  rocks,  animals,  and  plants:  he  put 
aside  the  offerings  of  my  scanty  lore.  This  offended  me  a 
bit,  as  I  recall,  for  the  reason  that  I  thought  I  knew,  and 
for  a  self -taught  lad  really  did  know,  a  good  deal  about 
such  matters,  especially  as  to  the  habits  of  insects,  par 
ticularly  spiders.  It  seemed  hard  to  be  denied  the 
chance  to  make  my  parade;  but  I  afterwards  saw  what 
this  meant,  that  he  did  not  intend  to  let  me  begin  my 
tasks  by  posing  as  a  naturalist.  The  beginning  was 
indeed  quite  different,  and,  as  will  be  seen,  in  a  manner 
that  quickly  evaporated  my  conceit. 

Agassiz's  laboratory  was  then  in  a  rather  small  two- 
storied  building,  looking  much  like  a  square  dwelling- 
house,  which  stood  where  the  College  Gymnasium  now 
stands.  In  this  primitive  establishment  Agassiz's  lab 
oratory,  as  distinguished  from  the  store-rooms  where 
the  collections  were  crammed,  occupied  one  room  about 
thirty  feet  long  and  fifteen  feet  wide  —  what  is  now  the 
west  room  on  the  lower  floor  of  the  edifice.  In  this  place, 
already  packed,  I  had  assigned  to  me  a  small  pine  table 
with  a  rusty  tin  pan  upon  it. 

When  I  sat  me  down  before  my  tin  pan,  Agassiz 
brought  me  a  small  fish,  placing  it  before  me  with  the 
rather  stern  requirement  that  I  should  study  it,  but 
should  on  no  account  talk  to  anyone  concerning  it,  nor 
read  anything  concerning  fishes,  until  I  had  his  permis 
sion  so  to  do.  To  my  inquiry,  "What  shall  I  do?"  he 
said  in  effect,  "Find  out  what  you  can  without  damag 
ing  the  specimen ;  when  I  think  that  you  have  done  the 
work  I  will  question  you." 


304  A  PUPIL  OF  AGASSIZ 

In  the  course  of  an  hour  I  thought  I  had  compassed 
that  fish;  it  was  rather  an  unsavory  object,  giving  forth 
the  stench  of  old  alcohol,  then  loathsome  to  me,  though 
in  time  I  came  to  like  it.  Many  of  the  scales  were 
loosened  so  that  they  fell  off.  It  appeared  to  me  to  be  a 
case  for  a  summary  report,  which  I  was  anxious  to  make 
and  get  on  to  the  next  stage  of  the  business.  But  Agas- 
siz,  though  always  within  call,  concerned  himself  no 
further  with  me  that  day,  nor  the  next,  nor  for  a  week. 
At  first,  this  neglect  was  distressing;  but  I  saw  that  it 
was  a  game,  for  he  was,  as  I  discerned,  rather  than  saw, 
covertly  watching  me.  So  I  set  my  wits  to  work  upon 
the  thing,  and  in  the  course  of  a  hundred  hours  or  so 
thought  I  had  done  much,  a  hundred  times  as  much  as 
seemed  possible  at  the  start.  I  got  interested  in  finding 
out  how  the  scales  went  in  series,  their  shape,  the  form 
and  placement  of  the  teeth,  etc.,  etc. 

Finally,  I  felt  full  of  the  subject  and  probably  ex 
pressed  it  in  my  bearing;  as  for  words  about  it,  there 
were  none  from  my  master  except  his  cheery  "Good 
morning."  At  length,  on  the  seventh  day,  came  the 
question,  "Well?"  and  my  disgorge  of  learning  to  him 
as  he  sat  on  the  edge  of  my  table,  puffing  his  cigar.  At 
the  end  of  the  hour's  telling,  he  swung  off  and  away,  say 
ing,  "That  is  not  right."  Here  I  began  to  think  that, 
after  all,  perhaps  the  rules  for  scanning  Latin  verse  were 
not  the  worst  infliction  in  the  world.  Moreover,  it  was 
clear  that  he  was  playing  a  game  with  me  to  find  if  I 
were  capable  of  doing  hard,  continuous  work  without 
the  support  of  a  teacher,  and  this  stimulated  me  to  labor. 

I  went  at  the  task  anew,  discarded  my  first  notes, 
and  in  another  week  of  ten  hours  a  day  labor  I  had 


A  PUPIL  OF  AGASSIZ  305 

results  which  astonished  myself  and  satisfied  him.  Still 
there  was  no  trace  of  praise  in  words  or  manner.  He 
signified  that  it  would  do  by  placing  before  me  about 
half  a  peck  of  bones,  telling  me  to  see  what  I  could 
make  of  them,  with  no  further  directions  to  guide  me. 
I  soon  found  that  they  were  the  skeletons  of  half-a- 
dozen  fishes  of  different  species;  the  jaws  told  me  that 
much  at  a  first  inspection.  The  task  evidently  was  to  fit 
the  separate  bones  together  in  their  proper  order.  Two 
months  or  more  went  to  this  task,  with  no  other  help 
than  an  occasional  looking  over  my  grouping,  with 
the  stereotyped  remark,  "That  is  not  right."  Finally, 
the  task  was  done,  and  I  was  again  set  upon  alco 
holic  specimens  —  this  time  a  remarkable  lot  repre 
senting,  perhaps,  twenty  species  of  the  side-swimmers, 
or  pleuronectidce. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  sense  of  power  in  dealing  with 
things  which  I  felt  in  beginning  the  more  extended  work 
on  a  group  of  animals.  I  had  learned  the  art  of  compar 
ing  objects,  which  is  the  basis  of  the  naturalist's  work. 
At  this  stage  I  was  allowed  to  read,  and  to  discuss  my 
work  with  others  about  me.  I  did  both  eagerly,  and 
acquired  a  considerable  knowledge  of  the  literature  of 
Ichthyology,  becoming  especially  interested  in  the 
system  of  classification,  then  most  imperfect.  I  tried 
to  follow  Agassiz's  scheme  of  division  into  the  order  of 
ctenoids,  and  ganoids,  with  the  result  that  I  found  one 
of  my  species  of  side-swimmers  had  cycloid  scales  on 
one  side  and  ctenoid  on  the  other.  This  not  only 
shocked  my  sense  of  the  value  of  classification  in  a  way 
that  permitted  of  no  full  recovery  of  my  original  respect 
for  the  process,  but  for  a  time  shook  my  confidence  in 


306  A  PUPIL  OF  AGASSIZ 

my  master's  knowledge.  At  the  same  time  I  had  a 
malicious  pleasure  in  exhibiting  my  find  to  him,  ex 
pecting  to  repay  in  part  the  humiliation  which  he  had 
evidently  tried  to  inflict  on  my  conceit.  To  my  question 
as  to  how  the  nondescript  should  be  classified,  he  said, 
"My  boy,  there  are  now  two  of  us  who  know  that." 


THE  MUSKRATS  ARE  BUILDING 

BY  DALLAS  LORE  SHARP 

WE  have  had  a  series  of  long,  heavy  rains,  and  water 
is  standing  over  the  swampy  meadow.  It  is  a  dreary 
stretch,  this  wet,  sedgy  land  in  the  cold  twilight,  drearier 
than  any  part  of  the  woods  or  the  upland  pastures. 
They  are  empty,  but  the  meadow  is  flat  and  wet,  naked 
and  all  unsheltered.  And  a  November  night  is  falling. 

The  darkness  deepens;  a  raw  wind  is  rising.  At  nine 
o'clock  the  moon  swings  round  and  full  to  the  crest  of 
the  ridge,  and  pours  softly  over.  I  button  the  heavy 
ulster  close,  and  in  my  rubber  boots  go  down  to  the 
river  and  follow  it  out  to  the  middle  of  the  meadow, 
where  it  meets  the  main  ditch  at  the  sharp  turn  toward 
the  swamp.  Here  at  the  bend,  behind  a  clump  of  black 
alders,  I  sit  quietly  down  and  wait. 

I  am  not  mad,  nor  melancholy;  I  am  not  after  copy. 
Nothing  is  the  matter  with  me.  I  have  come  out  to  the 
bend  to  watch  the  muskrats  building,  for  that  small 
mound  up  the  ditch  is  not  an  old  haycock,  but  a  half- 
finished  muskrat  house. 

The  moon  climbs  higher.  The  water  on  the  meadow 
shivers  in  the  light.  The  wind  bites  through  my  heavy 
coat  and  sends  me  back;  but  not  until  I  have  seen 
one,  two,  three  little  figures  scaling  the  walls  of  the 
house  with  loads  of  mud-and-reed  mortar.  I  am  driven 
back  by  the  cold,  but  not  until  I  know  that  here  in  the 


308      THE   MUSKRATS  ARE   BUILDING 

desolate  meadow  is  being  rounded  off  a  lodge,  thick- 
walled  and  warm,  and  proof  against  the  longest,  bit 
terest  of  winters. 

This  is  near  the  end  of  November.  My  wood  is  in  the 
cellar;  I  am  about  ready  to  put  on  the  double  windows 
and  storm-doors;  and  the  muskrat's  house  is  all  but 
finished.  Winter  is  at  hand;  but  we  are  prepared;  the 
muskrats  even  better  prepared  than  I,  for  theirs  is  an 
adequate  house,  planned  perfectly. 

Through  the  summer  they  had  no  house,  but  only 
their  tunnels  into  the  sides  of  the  ditch,  their  roadways 
out  into  the  grass,  and  their  beds  under  the  tussocks  or 
among  the  roots  of  the  old  stumps.  All  these  months 
the  water  had  been  low  in  the  ditch,  and  the  beds  among 
the  tussocks  had  been  safe  and  dry  enough. 

Now  the  autumnal  rains  have  filled  river  and  ditch, 
flooded  the  tunnels,  and  crept  up  into  the  beds  under  the 
tussocks.  Even  a  muskrat  will  creep  out  of  his  bed 
when  cold,  wet  water  creeps  in.  What  shall  he  do  for  a 
house?  He  does  not  want  to  leave  his  meadow.  The 
only  thing  to  do  is  to  build  —  move  from  under  the 
tussock,  out  upon  the  top,  and  here  in  the  deep,  wiry 
grass,  make  a  new  bed,  high  and  dry  above  the  rising 
water,  and  close  the  new  bed  in  with  walls  that  circle 
and  dome  and  defy  the  whiter. 

Such  a  house  will  require  a  great  deal  of  work  to 
build.  Why  not  combine,  make  it  big  enough  to  hold 
half  a  dozen;  save  labor  and  warmth,  and,  withal,  live 
sociably  together?  So  they  left,  each  one  his  bed,  and 
joining  efforts,  started,  about  the  middle  of  October,  to 
build  this  winter  house. 

Slowly,  night  after  night,  the  domed  walls  have  been 


310      THE  MUSKRATS  ARE  BUILDING 

rising,  although  for  several  nights  at  a  time  there  would 
be  no  apparent  .progress  with  the  work.  The  builders 
were  in  no  hurry,  it  seems;  the  cold  was  far  off;  but  it  is 
coming,  and  to-night  it  feels  near  and  keen.  And  to 
night  there  is  no  loafing  apout  the  lodge. 

When  this  house  is  done,  then  the  rains  may  descend, 
and  the  floods  come,  but  it  will  not  fall.  It  is  built  upon  a 
tussock;  and  a  tussock,  you  will  know,  who  have  ever 
grubbed  at  one,  has  hold  on  the  bottom  of  creation. 
The  winter  may  descend,  and  the  boys,  and  foxes, 
come,  —  and  they  will  come,  but  not  before  the  walls 
are  frozen,  —  yet  the  house  stands.  It  is  boy-proof, 
almost;  it  is  entirely  rain-,  cold-,  and  fox-proof.  Many 
a  time  I  have  hacked  at  its  walls  with  my  axe  when 
fishing  through  the  ice,  but  I  never  got  in.  I  have  often 
seen,  too,  where  the  fox  has  gone  round  and  round  the 
house  in  the  snow,  and  where,  at  places,  he  has  at 
tempted  to  dig  into  the  frozen  mortar;  but  it  was  a  foot 
thick,  as  hard  as  flint,  and  utterly  impossible  for  his 
pick  and  shovel. 

Yet  strangely  enough  the  house  sometimes  fails  of  the 
very  purpose  for  which  it  was  erected.  I  said  the  floods 
may  come.  So  they  may,  ordinarily;  but  along  hi 
March  when  one  comes  as  a  freshet,  it  rises  sometimes 
to  the  dome  of  the  house,  filling  the  single  bed-chamber 
and  drowning  the  dwellers  out.  I  remember  a  freshet 
once  in  the  end  of  February  that  flooded  Lupton's 
Pond  and  drove  the  muskrats  of  the  whole  pond  village 
to  their  ridgepoles,  to  the  bushes,  and  to  whatever 
wreckage  the  waters  brought  along. 

The  best  laid  schemes  o'  muskrats  too 
Gang  aft  a-gley. 


THE   MUSKRATS  ARE   BUILDING       311 

But  ganging  a-gley  is  not  the  interesting  thing,  not  the 
point  with  my  muskrats :  it  is  rather  that  my  muskrats, 
and  the  mice  that  Burns  ploughed  up,  the  birds  and  the 
bees,  and  even  the  very  trees  of  the  forest,  have  fore 
sight.  They  all  look  ahead  and  provide  against  the 
coming  cold.  That  a  mouse  or  a  muskrat,  or  even  a  bee, 
should  occasionally  prove  foresight  to  be  vain,  only 
shows  that  the  life  of  the  fields  is  very  human.  Such 
foresight,  however,  oftener  proves  entirely  adequate  for 
the  winter,  dire  as  some  of  the  emergencies  are  sure  to  be. 

The  north  wind  doth  blow, 
And  we  shall  have  snow, 
And  what  will  poor  Robin  do  then, 
Poor  thing? 

And  what  will  Muskrat  do?  and  Chipmunk?  and  White- 
foot?  and  little  Chickadee?  poor  things!  Never  fear. 
Robin  has  heard  the  trumpets  of  the  north  wind  and  is 
retreating  leisurely  toward  the  south ;  wise  thing !  Musk- 
rat  is  building  a  warm  winter  lodge;  Chipmunk  has  al 
ready  dug  his  but  and  ben,  and  so  far  down  under  the 
stone  wall  that  a  month  of  zeros  could  not  break  in; 
Whitef oot,  the  wood  mouse,  has  stored  the  hollow  poplar 
stub  full  of  acorns  and  has  turned  Robin's  deserted  nest, 
near  by,  into  a  cosy  house;  and  Chickadee,  dear  thing, 
Nature  herself  looks  after  him.  There  are  plenty  of 
provisions  for  the  hunting,  and  a  big  piece  of  suet  on  my 
lilac  bush.  His  clothes  are  warm,  and  he  will  hide  his 
head  under  his  wing  in  the  elm  tree  hole  when  the  north 
wind  doth  blow,  and  never  mind  the  weather. 

I  shall  not  mind  it  either,  not  so  much,  anyway,  on 
account  of  Chickadee.  He  lends  me  a  deal  of  support. 
So  do  Chipmunk,  Whitefoot,  and  Muskrat. 


312      THE  MUSKRATS  ARE  BUILDING 

This  lodge  of  my  muskrats  in  the  meadow  makes  a 
difference,  I  am  sure,  of  at  least  ten  degrees  in  the  mean 
temperature  of  my  winter.  How  can  the  out-of-doors 
freeze  entirely  up  with  such  a  house  as  this  at  the  middle 
of  it?  For  in  this  house  is  life,  warm  life  — -  and  fire. 
On  the  coldest  day  I  can  look  out  over  the  bleak  white 
waste  to  where  the  house  shows,  a  tiny  mound  in  the 
snow,  and  I  can  see  the  fire  glow,  just  as  I  can  see  and 
feel  the  glow  when  I  watch  the  slender  blue  wraith  rise 
into  the  still  air  from  the  chimney  of  the  old  farmhouse 
along  the  road  below.  For  I  share  in  the  life  of  both 
houses;  and  not  less  in  the  life  of  the  mud  house  of  the 
meadow,  because,  instead  of  Swedes,  they  are  muskrats 
who  live  there.  I  can  share  the  existence  of  a  muskrat? 
Easily.  I  like  to  curl  up  with  the  three  or  four  of  them 
in  that  mud  house  and  there  spend  the  worst  days  of  the 
winter.  My  own  big  house  here  on  the  hilltop  is  some 
times  cold.  And  the  wind!  If  sometimes  I  could  only 
drive  the  insistent  winter  wind  from  the  house  corners ! 
But  down  in  the  meadow  the  house  has  no  corners; 
the  mud  walls  are  thick,  so  thick  and  round  that  the 
shrieking  wind  sweeps  past  unheard,  and  all  unheeded 
the  cold  creeps  over  and  over  the  thatch,  then  crawls 
back  and  stiffens  upon  the  meadow. 

The  doors  of  our  house  in  the  meadow  swing  open 
the  winter  through.  Just  outside  the  doors  stand  our 
stacks  of  fresh  calamus  roots,  and  iris,  and  arum.  The 
roof  of  the  universe  has  settled  close  and  hard  upon  us  — 
a  sheet  of  ice  extending  from  the  ridge  of  the  house  far 
out  to  the  shores  of  the  meadow.  The  winter  is  all  above 
the  roof  —  outside.  It  blows  and  snows  and  freezes  out 
there.  In  here,  beneath  the  ice-roof,  the  roots  of  the 


THE   MUSKRATS  ARE  BUILDING      313 

sedges  are  pink  and  tender;  our  roads  are  all  open,  and 
they  run  every  way,  over  all  the  rich,  rooty  meadow. 

The  muskrats  are  building.  Winter  is  coming.  The 
muskrats  are  making  preparations;  but  not  they  alone. 
The  preparation  for  hard  weather  is  to  be  seen  every 
where,  and  it  has  been  going  on  ever  since  the  first 
flocking  of  the  swallows,  back  in  July.  Up  to  that  time 
the  season  still  seemed  young;  no  one  thought- of  harvest, 
of  winter;  when  there  upon  the  telegraph  wires  one  day 
were  the  swallows,  and  work  against  the  winter  had 
begun. 

The  great  migratory  movements  of  the  birds,  mysteri 
ous  in  some  of  their  courses  as  the  currents  of  the  sea, 
were  in  the  beginning,  and  are  still,  for  the  most  part, 
mere  shifts  to  escape  the  cold.  Why  in  the  spring  these 
same  birds  should  leave  the  southern  lands  of  plenty 
and  travel  back  to  the  hungrier  north  to  nest,  is  not 
easily  explained.  Perhaps  it  is  the  home  instinct  that 
draws  them  back;  for  home  to  birds  (and  men)  is  the 
land  of  the  nest.  However,  it  is  very  certain  that  among 
the  autumn  migrants  there  would  be  at  once  a  great 
falling  off  should  there  come  a  series  of  warm  open  win 
ters  with  abundance  of  food. 

Bad  as  the  weather  is,  there  are  a  few  of  the  seed-eat 
ing  birds,  like  the  quail,  and  some  of  the  insect-eaters, 
like  the  chickadee,  who  are  so  well  provided  for  that 
they  can  stay  and  survive  the  winter.  But  the  great 
majority  of  the  birds,  because  they  have  no  storehouse 
or  barn,  must  take  wing  and  fly  away  from  the  lean  and 
hungry  cold. 

And  I  am  glad  to  see  them  go.  The  thrilling  honk  of 
the  flying  wild  geese  out  of  the  November  sky  tells  me 


314      THE  MUSKRATS  ARE  BUILDING 

that  the  hollow  forests  and  closing  bays  of  the  vast 
desolate  north  are  empty  now,  except  for  the  few 
creatures  that  find  food  and  shelter  in  the  snow.  The 
wild  geese  pass,  and  I  hear  behind  them  the  clang  of  the 
arctic  gates,  the  boom  of  the  bolt  —  then  the  long 
frozen  silence.  Yet  it  is  not  for  long.  Soon  the  bar  will 
slip  back,  the  gates  will  swing  wide,  and  the  wild  geese 
will  come  honking  over,  swift  to  the  greening  marshes  of 
the  arctic  bays  once  more. 

Here  in  my  own  small  woods  and  marshes  there  is 
much  getting  ready,  much  comforting  assurance  that 
Nature  is  quite  equal  to  herself,  that  winter  is  not  ap 
proaching  unawares.  There  will  be  great  lack,  no  doubt, 
before  there  is  plenty  again;  there  will  be  suffering  and 
death.  But  what  with  the  migrating,  the  strange  deep 
sleeping,  the  building  and  harvesting,  there  will  be  also 
much  comfortable,  much  joyous  and  sociable  living. 

Long  before  the  muskrats  began  to  build,  even  before 
the  swallowrs  began  to  flock,  my  chipmunks  started  their 
winter  stores.  I  don't  know  which  began  his  work  first, 
which  kept  harder  at  it,  chipmunk  or  the  provident  ant. 
The  ant  has  come  by  a  reputation  for  thrift,  which, 
though  entirely  deserved,  is  still  not  the  exceptional 
virtue  it  is  made  to  seem.  Chipmunk  is  just  as  thrifty. 
So  is  the  busy  bee.  It  is  the  thought  of  approaching 
winter  that  keeps  the  bee  busy  far  beyond  her  summer 
needs.  Much  of  her  labor  is  entirely  for  the  winter.  By 
the  first  of  August  she  has  filled  the  brood  chamber  with 
honey  —  forty  pounds  of  it,  enough  for  the  hatching 
bees  and  for  the  whole  colony  until  the  willows  tassel 
again.  But  who  knows  what  the  winter  may  be?  How 
cold  and  long  drawn  out  into  the  coming  May?  So 


THE  MUSKRATS  ARE   BUILDING       315 

the  harvesting  is  pushed  with  vigor  on  to  the  flowering 
of  the  last  autumn  asters  —  on  until  fifty,  a  hundred,  or 
even  three  hundred  pounds  of  surplus  honey  are  sealed 
in  the  combs,  and  the  colony  is  safe  should  the  sun  not 
shine  again  for  a  year  and  a  day. 

But  here  is  Nature,  in  these  extra  pounds  of  honey, 
making  preparation  for  me,  incapable  drone  that  I  am. 
I  could  not  make  a  drop  of  honey  from  a  whole  forest  of 
linden  bloom.  Yet  I  must  live,  so  I  give  the  bees  a 
bigger  gum  log  than  they  need;  I  build  them  greater 
barns;  and  when  the  harvest  is  all  in,  this  extra  store  I 
make  my  own.  I  too  with  the  others  am  getting  ready 
for  the  cold. 

It  is  well  that  I  am.  The  last  of  the  asters  have  long 
since  gone;  so  have  the  witch  hazels.  All  is  quiet  about 
the  hives.  The  bees  have  formed  into  their  warm  winter 
clusters  upon  the  combs,  and  except  "when  come  the 
calm,  mild  days,"  they  will  fly  no  more  until  March  or 
April.  I  will  contract  their  entrances,  —  put  on  their 
storm-doors.  And  now  there  is  little  else  that  I  can  do 
but  put  on  my  own. 

The  whole  of  my  out-of-doors  is  a  great  hive,  stored 
and  sealed  for  the  winter,  its  swarming  life  close-clus 
tered,  and  covering  in  its  centre,  as  coals  in  the  ashes, 
the  warm  life-fires  of  summer. 

I  stand  along  the  edge  of  the  hillside  here  and  look 
down  the  length  of  its  frozen  slope.  The  brown  leaves 
have  drifted  into  the  entrances,  as  if  every  burrow  were 
forsaken;  sand  and  sticks  have  washed  in,  too,  littering 
and  choking  the  doorways. 

There  is  no  sign  of  life.  A  stranger  would  find  it 
hard  to  believe  that  my  whole  drove  of  forty-six  ground- 


316      THE  MUSKRATS  ARE  BUILDING 

hogs  (woodchucks)  are  gently  snoring  at  the  bottoms 
of  these  old  uninteresting  holes.  Yet  here  they  are,  and 
quite  out  of  danger,  sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  furry,  the 
fat,  and  the  forgetful. 

The  woodchuck's  is  a  curious  shift,  a  case  of  Nature 
outdoing  herself.  Winter  spreads  far  and  fast,  and 
Woodchuck,  in  order  to  keep  ahead  out  of  danger, 
would  need  wings.  But  he  was  n't  given  any.  Must  he 
perish  then?  Winter  spreads  far,  but  does  not  go  deep  — 
down  only  about  four  feet;  and  Woodchuck,  if  he  cannot 
escape  overland,  can,  perhaps,  under  land.  So  down  he 
goes  through  the  winter,  down  into  a  mild  and  even 
temperature,  five  long  feet  away  —  but  as  far  away  from 
the  snow  and  cold  as  Bobolink  among  the  reeds  of  the 
distant  Orinoco. 

Indeed,  Woodchuck's  is  a  farther  journey  and  even 
more  wonderful  than  Bobolink's,  for  these  five  feet  carry 
him  beyond  the  bounds  of  time  and  space  into  the 
mysterious  realm  of  sleep,  of  suspended  life,  to  the  very 
gates  of  death.  That  he  will  return  with  Bobolink,  that 
he  will  come  up  alive  with  the  spring  out  of  this  dark 
way,  is  very  strange. 

For  he  went  in  most  meagrely  prepared.  He  took 
nothing  with  him,  apparently.  The  muskrat  built  him  a 
house,  and  under  the  spreading  ice  turned  all  the  mea 
dow  into  a  well-stocked  cellar.  The  beaver  built  a  dam, 
cut  and  anchored  under  water  a  plenty  of  green  sticks 
near  his  lodge,  so  that  he  too  would  be  under  cover 
when  the  ice  formed,  and  have  an  abundance  of  tender 
bark  at  hand.  Chipmunk  spent  half  of  his  summer  lay 
ing  up  food  near  his  underground  nest.  But  Woodchuck 
simply  digged  him  a  hole,  a  grave,  ate  until  no  particle 


THE   MUSKRATS  ARE   BUILDING       317 

more  of  fat  could  be  got  into  his  baggy  hide,  then  crawled 
into  his  tomb,  gave  up  the  ghost,  and  waited  the  resur 
rection  of  the  spring. 

This  is  his  shift !  This  is  the  length  to  which  he  goes, 
because  he  has  no  wings,  and  because  he  cannot  cut, 
cure,  and  mow  away,  in  the  depths  of  the  stony  hill 
side,  enough  clover  hay  to  last  him  over  the  winter. 
The  beaver  cans  his  fresh  food  in  cold  water;  the  chip 
munk  selects  long-keeping  things  and  buries  them;  the 
woodchuck  makes  of  himself  a  silo,  eats  all  his  winter 
hay  in  the  summer  while  it  is  green,  turns  it  at  once  into 
a  surplus  of  himself,  then  buries  that  self,  feeds  upon 
it,  and  sleeps  - —  and  lives ! 

The  north  wind  doth  blow, 
And  we  shall  have  snow, 

but  what  good  reason  is  there  for  our  being  daunted  at 
the  prospect?  Robin  and  all  the  others  are  well  pre 
pared.  Even  the  wingless  frog,  who  is  also  lacking  in  fur 
and  feathers  and  fat,  even  he  has  no  care  at  the  sound 
of  the  cold  winds.  Nature  provides  for  him  too,  in  her 
way,  which  is  the  way  neither  of  the  robin,  the  musk- 
rat,  or  the  woodchuck.  He  survives,  and  all  he  has 
to  do  about  it  is  to  dig  into  the  mud  at  the  bottom  of 
the  ditch.  This  looks  at  first  like  the  journey  Wood- 
chuck  takes.  But  it  is  really  a  longer,  stranger  jour 
ney  than  Woodchuck's,  for  it  takes  the  frog  far  be 
yond  the  realms  of  mere  sleep,  on  into  the  cold,  black 
land  where  no  one  can  tell  the  quick  from  the  dead. 

The  frost  may  or  may  not  reach  him  here  in  the  ooze. 
No  matter.  If  the  cold  works  down  and  freezes  him  into 
the  mud,  he  never  knows.  But  he  will  thaw  out  as  good 


318      THE   MUSKRATS  ARE   BUILDING 

as  new;  he  will  sing  again  for  joy  and  love  as  soon  as  his 
heart  warms  up  enough  to  beat. 

I  have  seen  frogs  frozen  into  the  middle  of  solid 
lumps  of  ice  in  the  laboratory.  Drop  the  lump  on  the 
floor,  and  the  frog  would  break  out  like  a  fragment  of 
the  ice  itself.  And  this  has  happened  more  than  once 
to  the  same  frog  without  causing  him  the  least  apparent 
suffering  or  inconvenience.  He  would  come  to,  and 
croak,  and  look  as  wise  as  ever. 

The  north  wind  may  blow, 

but  the  muskrats  are  building;  and  it  is  by  no  means 
a  cheerless  prospect,  this  wood-and-meadow  world  of 
mine  in  the  gray  November  light.  The  frost  will  not 
fall  to-night  as  falls  the  plague  on  men;  the  brightness 
of  the  summer  is  gone,  yet  this  chill  gloom  is  not  the 
sombre  shadow  of  a  pall.  Nothing  is  dying  in  the  fields : 
the  grass-blades  are  wilting,  the  old  leaves  are  falling, 
still  no  square  foot  of  greensward  will  the  winter  kill,  nor 
a  single  tree,  perhaps,  in  my  wood-lot.  There  will  be  no 
less  of  life  next  April  because  of  this  winter,  unless, 
perchance,  conditions  altogether  exceptional  starve 
some  of  the  winter  birds.  These  suffer  most;  yet,  as  the 
seasons  go,  life  even  for  the  winter  birds  is  comfortable 
and  abundant. 

The  fence-rows  and  old  pastures  are  full  of  berries 
that  will  keep  the  fires  burning  in  the  quail  and  partridge 
during  the  bitterest  weather.  Last  February,  however, 
I  came  upon  two  partridges  in  the  snow,  dead  of  hunger 
and  cold.  It  was  after  an  extremely  long  severe  spell. 
But  this  was  not  all.  These  two  birds  since  fall  had 
been  feeding  regularly  in  the  dried  fodder  corn  that 


THE   MUSKRATS  ARE   BUILDING       319 

stood  shocked  over  the  field.  One  day  all  the  corn  was 
carted  away.  The  birds  found  their  supply  of  food 
suddenly  cut  off,  and,  unused  to  foraging  the  fence- 
rows  and  tangles  for  wild  seeds,  they  seemed  to  have 
given  up  the  struggle  at  once,  although  within  easy 
reach  of  plenty. 

The  smaller  birds  of  the  winter,  like  the  tree-sparrow 
and  junco,  feed  upon  the  weeds  and  grasses  that  ripen 
unmolested  along  the  roadsides  and  waste  places.  A 
mixed  flock  of  these  small  birds  lived  several  days  last 
winter  upon  the  seeds  of  the  ragweed  in  my  mowing. 
The  weeds  came  up  in  the  early  fall  after  the  field  was 
laid  down  to  clover  and  timothy.  They  threatened  to 
choke  out  the  grass.  I  looked  at  them,  rising  shoulder 
high  and  seedy  over  the  greening  field,  and  thought 
with  dismay  of  how  they  would  cover  it  by  the  next 
fall.  After  a  time  the  snow  came,  a  foot  and  a  half  of 
it,  till  only  the  tops  of  the  seedy  ragweeds  showed  above 
the  level  white;  then  the  juncos,  goldfinches,  and  tree- 
sparrows  came,  and  there  was  a  five-day  shucking  of 
ragweed-seed  in  the  mowing,  and  five  days  of  life  and 
plenty. 

Then  I  looked  and  thought  again  —  that,  perhaps, 
into  the  original  divine  scheme  of  things  were  put  even 
ragweeds.  But  then,  perhaps,  there  was  no  original 
divine  scheme  of  things.  I  don't  know.  As  I  watch  the 
changing  seasons,  however,  through  the  changeless 
years,  I  seem  to  find  a  scheme,  a  plan,  a  purpose, 
and  there  are  weeds  and  winters  in  it;  and  it  seems 
divine. 

The  muskrats  are  building;  the  last  of  the  migrating 
geese  have  gone  over;  the  wild  mice  have  harvested 


320      THE  MUSKRATS  ARE  BUILDING 

their  acorns;  the  bees  have  clustered;  the  woodchucks 
are  asleep ;  and  the  snap  in  the  big  hickory  by  the  side  of 
the  house  has  crept  down  out  of  reach  of  the  fingers  of 
the  frost.  I  will  put  on  the  storm-doors  and  the  double 
windows.  Even  now  the  logs  are  blazing  cheerily  on  the 
wide,  warm  hearth. 


Photograph  by  G.  Clyde  Fisher 

THE   MUSKRAT'S  HOUSE  — OF  HIS  OWN  BUILDING 


THE   OFFERING 

BY  OLIVE   CECILIA  JACKS 

How  have  we  fallen  from  our  high  estate, 

O  Lord !  plunged  down  from  heaven ! 
In  wanton  pride,  in  lust  for  empires  great, 

For  riches  have  we  striven. 
Are  these  not  dust  and  ashes  in  thy  sight, 

Swept  by  the  wind  and  lost? 
Have  we  not  sinned  against  the  Spirit's  might, 

Blasphemed  the  Holy  Ghost? 

What  dost  thou  ask  from  all  the  sons  of  men? 

Atonement  for  this  wrong? 
Behold,  we  lay  upon  thine  altar,  then, 

A  host  twelve  million  strong: 
Twelve  million  dead;  they  stand  before  thy  face, 

An  offering  for  sin ; 
Their  cry  goes  forth  into  the  bounds  of  space; 

They  crowd  thy  courts  within. 

Our  dead  they  are,  —  friend,  foe,  alike,  —  our  dead; 

On  sodden  battlefield 
They  laid  them  down;  for  us  their  blood  was  shed; 

By  their  stripes  were  we  healed; 
For  our  transgressions  were  we  smitten  sore; 

Slaughtered  with  shot  and  shell; 
For  us  the  chastisement  of  peace  they  bore, 

Descending  into  hell. 


322  THE   OFFERING 

Not  theirs  alone  the  atoning  sacrifice : 

Wives,  mothers,  at  the  call, 
In  unity  of  sorrow  paid  the  price, 

Gave  of  their  best,  their  all : 
One  was  the  heartache,  one  the  darkened  home; 

And  one  the  company 
Of  living  dead,  who  wait  to  see  God  come : 

A  mighty  company. 


THE  AIRMAN'S  ESCAPE 

BY  GEORGE  W.  PURYEAR 


IT  was  in  the  afternoon  of  September  15  that  we 
arrived  at  Villingen.  The  prison  camp  was  n't  at  all 
attractive  from  the  outside,  but  it  proved  much  better 
and  more  comfortable  than  it  looked.  It  covered  an 
area  of  about  1000  metres  by  250.  Barracks  were  built 
around  the  outer  edges,  with  an  open  court  in  the  centre, 
in  which  were  a  tennis-court,  volley-ball  court,  library, 
reading-room,  and  assembly  hall.  Around  these,  inside 
the  line  of  barracks,  was  room  for  us  to  walk  or  run  for 
exercise.  This  had  been  a  Russian  officers'  camp,  but 
it  was  being  vacated  for  American  officers.  There  were 
still  two  hundred  Russians  there,  and  at  that  time 
seventy  Americans. 

The  American  Red  Cross  had  bulk  supplies,  both  of 
food  and  clothing,  at  Villingen.  Food  was  issued  every 
Monday.  The  German  food  here  was  nothing  but  the 
old  vegetable  compound.  Once  a  week  we  got  a  little 
slice  of  very  poor  meat.  The  Russians,  who  had  to  live 
largely  on  this  food,  looked  awfully  pale  and  underfed. 
We  were  not  bothered  with  any  formal  breakfast  at  all. 
Instead,  they  issued  us  twenty  lumps  of  sugar  a  week, 
which  pleased  us  much  better.  I  never  ate  any  of  my 
sugar,  but  saved  every  piece  of  it  for  rations  on  my 
escape. 


324  THE  AIRMAN'S  ESCAPE 

The  Germans  took  a  picture  of  each  of  us,  after 
which  we  could,  if  we  chose,  go  out  of  camp  for  walks, 
on  our  word  of  honor. 

We  could  not  walk  about  at  our  pleasure,  of  course, 
but  were  allowed  to  go  out  at  a  certain  time  every  other 
day  (the  weather  and  convenience  of  the  Germans  per 
mitting),  in  a  group  of  not  less  than  ten,  or  more  than 
fifty.  A  German  non-commissioned  officer  went  with  us 
as  a  guide,  and  we  were  subject  to  his  orders.  We  would 
be  out  an  hour  or  two.  As  we  went  out  we  would  give 
our  written  word  of  honor  not  to  try  to  escape,  accom 
panied  with  our  picture;  and  when  we  returned,  we 
would  take  it  up  again. 

The  defenses  of  the  camps  were  as  follows.  The  outer 
windows  of  the  barracks  were  barred.  Where  the  bar 
racks  did  not  join,  a  blind  fence  with  wire  on  top  con 
nected  them.  A  few  feet  outside  the  line  of  barracks 
and  fence  came  the  main  barrier,  which  went  all  around. 
This  was,  first,  a  low  barbed- wire  fence;  just  outside 
that,  a  ditch  about  four  feet  wide,  filled  with  barbed- 
wire  entanglement;  and  at  the  outer  edge  of  this  came 
the  main  fence,  of  woven  barbed  wire,  about  nine  feet 
high,  with  steel  arms  on  top  of  the  posts,  curving  toward 
the  interior  about  two  feet,  thus  making  the  top  of  the 
fence  lean  toward  the  inside,  so  that  it  was  impossible  to 
climb  from  that  direction,  even  with  nothing  else  to 
bother  you.  Just  outside  this  was  the  outer  guard 
patrol.  This  patrol  was  doubled  before  dark  every 
night.  There  was  also  a  line  of  electric  lights  a  few  feet 
outside,  which  burned  all  night. 

The  weather  was  already  growing  cold,  and  I  realized 
that  the  time  for  making  the  attempt,  without  hazard- 


THE  AIRMAN'S   ESCAPE  325 

ing  the  winter  weather,  was  getting  short.  In  spite  of  my 
effort  to  keep  myself  in  condition,  I  found  that  my  con 
finement  had  softened  as  well  as  delayed  me.  I  walked 
miles  and  miles  inside  the  camp  in  order  to  harden 
myself.  After  a  few  rainy  days  it  cleared,  and  I  went 
out  on  the  first  honor  walk.  I  learned  from  the  Rus 
sians  that  a  few  weeks  of  good  weather  might  be  ex 
pected.  The  moon  was  dark.  It  would  be  much  more 
dangerous  to  go  in  moonlight,  and  it  would  be  winter 
before  the  next  dark  of  the  moon.  All  these  things 
indicated  that  now  was  the  time. 

I  talked  to  Lieutenant  H.  C.  Tichenor,  better  known 
among  us  as  "Tich,"  and  found  him  of  my  mind,  willing 
to  go  any  length  to  try  it.  We  shook  hands  on  it  and 
went  to  work.  It  was  then  Thursday,  October  3. 
Monday  we  would  get  a  new  food-issue,  and  we  deter 
mined  to  be  ready  to  break  Monday  night.  We  pro 
posed  to  go  right  out  of  our  window  and  over  that 
barrier  some  way;  get  as  good  a  start  on  the  guard  as 
possible,  and  chance  the  rest. 

The  bottoms  of  our  beds  were  made  of  planks  running 
lengthwise.  These  were  strong  boards  one  inch  thick, 
eight  inches  wide,  and  seven  feet  long.  From  these  I 
thought  that  we  should  be  able  to  construct  some  means 
of  scaling  the  barrier.  Tich  was  a  good  engineer.  We 
could  not  drive  nails,  of  course,  nor  could  we  make  any 
large  show  of  work — for  the  interpreter  dropped  in  on 
us  every  hour  or  two,  and  his  eye  was  keen;  therefore  we 
worked  out  and  drew  our  design  on  paper.  We  took  the 
boards  out  one  at  a  time,  while  someone  stood  watch 
for  us;  bored  the  necessary  holes  and  did  the  necessary 
cutting  on  each;  and  replaced  them  under  the  beds, 


326  THE  AIRMAN'S  ESCAPE 

where  they  remained  until  the  last  moment,  when  we 
took  them  out  and  quietly  put  them  together  with  wire, 
like  putting  up  ready-made  wooden  barracks.  Albert- 
son,  who  was  good  at  map-drawing,  drew  the  map  I 
used.  From  a  Russian  officer  I  bought  a  Russian  over 
coat  and  cap.  I  considered  this  a  fair  disguise,  as  well  as 
necessary  cover,  because  the  silhouette  at  night  would 
be  the  same  as  that  of  the  German  uniform.  Also,  if  I 
should  accidentally  be  seen  in  the  daytime,  a  Russian 
prisoner  at  liberty  is  common  enough  in  Germany  not  to 
attract  suspicion  if  he  does  not  act  suspiciously.  Again, 
in  the  guise  of  a  Russian  prisoner  I  would  not  be  ex 
pected  to  speak  German. 

There  was  in  camp  a  Russian  who,  by  ways  and 
means  known  only  to  himself,  could  produce  anything 
you  wanted  if  you  had  the  price.  I  went  to  him  for  a 
compass.  Tich  had  a  good  one,  but  I  though  that  we 
should  both  be  fully  equipped.  I  also  bought  a  big 
springback  knife  and  a  twenty-mark  bill.  For  the 
twenty  marks  in  German  money  I  gave  thirty  marks 
canteen  money. 

There  were  several  other  men  who  were  planning  to 
escape,  and  knowing  that,  when  one  escaped,  there 
would  be  an  inspection  which  would  catch  those  pre 
paring,  we  determined  to  make  our  break  all  together. 
Willis  and  Isaacs  had  discovered  a  means  to  short-cir 
cuit  all  the  lights  of  the  camp.  We  planned  to  put  them 
all  out,  and  as  this  was  done,  to  break  at  once  at  our 
different  points.  They  certainly  could  not  stop  all  of  us. 
Isaacs,  Battle,  and  Tucker  were  to  break  out  of  one 
window,  Tichenor  and  I  another,  and  a  third  bunch 
still  another.  All  three  of  the  windows  were  along  the 


THE  AIRMAN'S   ESCAPE  327 

southern  side  of  the  camp.  Willis,  Wardle,  Chalmers, 
and  some  others,  disguised  as  Germans,  were  to  slip  into 
the  quarters  of  the  guard  and  await  the  alarm  raised  by 
our  escape,  and  then,  as  these  guards  were  turned  out 
to  chase  us,  they  would  rush  out  the  open  gate  with  the 
Huns. 

Sunday  morning  we  learned  that  all  the  Russians 
would  be  sent  away  Monday.  We  knew  that  this  would 
cause  an  inspection  of  quarters,  and  our  plans  would  be 
discovered.  We  therefore  determined  to  make  the 
break  Sunday  night.  Having  expected  to  leave  Mon 
day  night  after  the  food-issue,  several  of  us  were  short  of 
food-supplies.  I  had  traded  off  so  much  of  mine  for  my 
compass  and  other  equipment,  that  I  had  practically 
none.  We  could  not  wait,  however,  and  as  it  turned  out, 
it  was  probably  a  good  thing  that  I  was  no  more  heavily 
loaded,  even  with  food.  I  had  my  sugar,  however,  and 
from  the  other  boys  I  got  four  boxes  of  hard-tack  and 
one  opened  can  of  hash.  The  lights  inside  our  barracks 
were  turned  out  every  night  at  ten-thirty.  Our  plan 
was  to  short-circuit  the  others  a  few  moments  after 
that;  and  the  putting  out  of  the  outside  lights  would  be 
the  signal  to  go. 

Sunday  night,  before  ten-thirty,  Tich  and  I  had  cut 
loose  the  bars  in  our  window,  had  taken  the  prepared 
slats  from  our  beds  and  put  them  together,  making  a 
strong  and  solid  run-board  fourteen  feet  long,  and  were 
ready. 

At  ten-thirty  the  lights  in  our  quarters  went  out.  I 
put  on  my  Russian  cap  and  overcoat,  pinning  up  the 
tail  to  prevent  its  catching  on  the  wire,  and  slung  on 
my  haversack  with  my  small  food-supply  and  so  forth. 


328  THE  AIRMAN'S  ESCAPE 

Tich  and  I  took  our  run-board  to  the  window.  A  mes 
senger  came  to  ask  if  we  were  ready.  We  told  him  we 
were.  I  was  to  go  out  of  the  window  first,  with  the  head 
of  the  run-board.  Tich  was  to  feed  it  out  the  window  to 
me,  coming  out  himself  as  the  back  end  came  out.  I  was 
to  put  the  end  on  the  fence  and  go  over,  Tich  coming 
over  behind  me.  We  had  selected  a  rendezvous  outside 
in  case  we  became  separated. 

About  ten  minutes  elapsed  before  anything  happened. 
This  time  we  spent,  quite  nervously,  of  course,  right  at 
the  window.  Then  the  outer  lights  began  to  sputter  and 
went  out.  We  pulled  the  curtain  down  from  the  window, 
bent  back  the  bars,  which,  though  remaining  in  place, 
had  been  cut  loose  during  the  night,  and  the  window 
was  cleared  for  the  go.  The  guard,  who  appeared  to 
have  noticed  something  suspicious  about  our  window 
during  the  evening,  was  standing  directly  in  front. 
Wlien  he  saw  the  lights  go  out,  he  knew,  of  course,  that 
something  was  up,  and  uttering  a  little  exclamation 
plainly  audible  to  us,  who  were  so  near  him,  pulled  his 
rifle  down  from  his  back  and  got  it  ready  for  action. 
With  the  lights  out,  things  were  not  clearly  visible,  but 
the  outline  of  a  man  was  easily  distinguishable  within 
fifty  yards  or  less. 

Seeing  that  the  guard  stood  right  in  front,  I  thought  it 
advisable  to  wait  and  see  what  he  would  do  on  hearing 
the  noise  of  the  other  parties,  who  I  knew  would  then 
start  out,  hoping  that  he  would  move  from  his  position 
of  such  advantage.  In  a  few  seconds  I  heard  the  wire 
screech,  and  the  guard  below  shoot  off  his  gun  and  blow 
his  whistle.  This  guard,  however,  did  not  move.  I  knew 
then  that  the  time  had  come  to  go,  or  we  would  soon 


THE   AIRMAN'S   ESCAPE  329 

be  caught.  I  shoved  the  ladder  partially  out  of  the 
window  and  jumped  out  myself.  The  ground  was  about 
seven  feet  below  the  window.  Tichenor  fed  the  ladder 
out  to  me,  and  came  out  with  the  rear  end.  I  threw  it 
against  the  fence,  and  immediately  started  over. 

The  guard  standing  directly  in  front  saw  me,  of 
course,  and  the  instant  that  I  started  over  the  fence 
challenged  me.  I  paid  no  attention  to  him,  and  he  chal 
lenged  me  a  second  time  just  as  I  reached  the  top  of  the 
fence.  I  jumped  down  on  the  outside.  I  thus  stood  just 
outside  the  fence,  the  guard  about  fifteen  feet  in  front  of 
me  and  facing  me.  At  an  angle  to  my  left,  and  about 
half-way  between  us,  stood  a  large  tree.  I  jumped  be 
hind  this  tree.  The  guard  saw  me  go  behind  it  and 
waited.  I  looked  back  and  saw  Tichenor  then  outside 
the  barracks  and  inside  the  fence.  I  saw  the  other  guard 
on  his  beat  coming  from  about  thirty  yards  to  the  left 
of  me.  I  knew  that  I  could  not  keep  one  tree  between 
me  and  two  guards  very  long,  and  that  the  only  chance 
that  Tichenor  possibly  had  of  getting  out  was  to  come 
over  while  I  had  the  guard  occupied. 

I  did  not  intend  to  give  myself  up,  so  after  a  few  sec 
onds  I  jumped  out  from  behind  the  tree  and  dashed  past 
the  guard.  I  passed  within  about  three  steps  of  the 
nearest  and  about  twenty  of  the  other.  The  nearest 
guard  challenged  me  just  as  I  dashed  by  him.  I  did  not 
heed  him,  but  tried  to  run  in  as  much  of  a  zig-zag  course 
as  I  could  without  losing  forward  speed.  He  challenged 
a  second  time.  By  that  time  I  had  got  probably  six  or 
seven  steps  farther,  and  he  fired.  The  other  guard,  who 
had  said  nothing,  also  fired  at  me  at  the  same  time.  The 
bullets  passed  quite  near  me,  but  neither  touched  me. 


330  THE  AIRMAN'S  ESCAPE 

Just  as  quickly  as  they  could  breech  their  guns,  they 
fired  again.  Of  course,  I  was  not  standing  round  waiting 
for  them  to  breech  those  guns.  Just  as  the  second  shots 
were  fired,  both  at  the  same  time  again,  I  stumbled  into 
a  ditch  and  fell.  I  was  familiar  with  the  whereabouts  of 
this  ditch,  but  under  the  circumstances  naturally  forgot 
it.  I  fell  just  at  the  time  of  the  shots.  Probably  one  or 
both  might  have  hit  me,  had  I  not  fallen.  Also  the  guard 
nearest,  seeing  me  fall,  evidently  thought  he  had  shot  me 
and  turned  his  attention  back  to  the  ladder.  When  I 
scrambled  up,  he  seemed  not  to  see  me.  The  other  guard 
shot  at  me  twice  more;  but  I  was  then  out  of  sight. 

I  ran  only  a  short  distance  before  I  was  out  of  breath, 
being  loaded  down  with  the  heavy  Russian  overcoat, 
two  woolen  suits  of  underwear  and  two  woolen  shirts, 
and  my  food-parcel.  I  sat  down  just  out  of  sight,  in 
order  to  catch  my  breath.  At  this  time,  all  kinds  of  dis 
turbances  and  shots  were  heard,  for  a  dozen  men  were 
trying  to  escape  at  once.  I  then  got  up,  but  being  too 
tired  to  run,  began  walking  in  the  direction  of  the  place 
where  Tichenor  and  I  had  arranged  to  meet.  After  I 
had  walked  about  a  thousand  yards  away,  my  silhouette 
evidently  rose  above  the  sky-line,  and  one  of  the  guards 
took  a  pot-shot  at  me  at  this  long  range.  Finding  that  I 
was  seen,  I  stooped  down,  so  as  not  to  silhouette  my 
self,  and  ran  on  to  the  place  where  I  was  to  meet  Tiche 
nor.  I  waited  for  him  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes,  ac 
cording  to  our  agreement.  While  there,  I  heard  some 
seventy -five  or  a  hundred  shots  fired  down  at  the  camp. 
At  the  end  of  that  time  I  heard  the  bugle  blown  for 
assembly,  and  knew  that  he  was  not  coming.  I  prayed 
to  the  Lord  and  started  for  the  Swiss  border  alone. 


THE   AIRMAN'S   ESCAPE  331 


ii 


The  trip  to  the  Swiss  border  was  accomplished  in  five 
nights'  walking.  At  first  I  traveled  almost  directly  west. 
My  compass,  being  made  by  hand,  was  not  as  conven 
ient  and  easy  to  use  as  an  ordinary  compass,  but  it  was 
a  good  one  and  never  failed  me.  The  compass-needle 
itself  was  made  of  a  small  flat  piece  of  steel  about  an 
inch  long,  tapered  at  each  end.  It  was  pivoted  on  a 
sharpened  brass  peg  screwed  into  the  bottom  of  a  little 
wooden  box.  Though  large  when  assembled,  it  was  ideal 
to  pass  inspection  in  prison,  because,  when  disassem 
bled,  it  bore  no  resemblance  to  a  compass.  To  make  it 
visible  at  night,  I  had  taken  some  of  the  phosphorus 
from  the  face  of  my  wrist-watch  and  stuck  it  to  the  north 
end  of  the  compass,  balancing  the  other  end  with  a  little 
mucilage. 

Morning  found  me  about  fifteen  kilometres  on  my 
way,  west  by  a  little  south  from  Villingen.  Toward 
morning,  having  walked  a  little  late,  though  it  was  not 
yet  light  in  the  forest,  I  met  two  wood-cutters  on  their 
way  to  work.  My  tactics  of  noiselessness,  however, 
saved  me,  and  I  observed  their  approach  before  they 
saw  me  and  easily  avoided  them.  After  a  little  I  came 
out  to  seek  a  better  hiding-place  for  the  day.  Just  as  I 
rose,  I  saw,  and  was  seen  by,  the  only  human  who  ever 
saw  me  by  daylight  during  my  whole  trip.  He  was  a 
civilian,  about  three  hundred  yards  away,  and  was 
looking  straight  at  me.  I  feigned  indifference  to  him, 
adjusted  my  clothes  leisurely,  and  strode  away  as  if  he 
meant  nothing  to  me.  Thanks  to  my  Russian  costume, 
he  was  not  suspicious  and  did  not  follow. 


332  THE  AIRMAN'S  ESCAPE 

In  a  few  minutes  I  found  a  good  place,  and  taking 
off  my  shoes  and  putting  on  a  pair  of  heavy  wool  socks, 
which  I  had  brought  for  that  purpose,  settled  down 
for  the  day.  The  weather  was  kind  to  me,  and  after  a 
few  hours  the  sun  brought  to  me  the  possibility  of 
food  and  sleep.  During  this  first  day  I  ate  all  my  hash, 
because,  being  opened,  it  would  not  keep.  It  made  a 
reasonably  good  day's  rations.  Realizing  the  swim  be 
fore  me,  and  not  having  swum  in  two  years,  I  began  the 
exercises  which  I  used  several  hours  daily  from  then  on. 

As  evening  came  on,  I  was  restless  to  be  on  my  way, 
and  started  as  soon  as  it  was  dark  enough  to  venture  it. 
Soon  after  starting,  while  circling  a  little  village,  where 
there  was  a  crowd  of  people  in  the  street,  I  came  upon 
what  seemed  to  be  a  narrow  strip  of  water.  When  I  at 
tempted  to  jump  across  it,  what  appeared  to  be  the 
other  bank  proved  to  be  only  long  grass,  and  I  went  into 
water  up  to  my  waist.  I  was  more  afraid  that  the  splash 
I  had  made  would  attract  attention  than  I  was  worried 
by  my  wetting.  I  clambered  to  the  other  side  and  re 
sumed  my  journey  with  the  water  sloshing  in  my  shoes. 

I  raided  my  first  garden  about  midnight,  filling  my 
little  bag.  I  ate  some  during  the  night,  and  kept  a  sup 
ply  to  eat  during  the  day,  when  it  would  be  impossible 
to  search  for  anything.  For  the  remainder  of  my  jour 
ney  I  lived  more  upon  these  raw  foods  than  upon  my 
scanty  rations.  Each  morning,  a  little  before  time  to 
hide  for  the  day,  I  would  collect  my  day's  supply.  My 
dry  food  I  ate  mostly  when  I  rested  during  the  night. 
When  I  was  exhausted,  I  could  feel  the  immediate  stim 
ulating  effect  of  a  lump  of  sugar,  just  like  a  hot  cup  of 
coffee  to  the  tired  man. 


THE  AIRMAN'S  ESCAPE  333 

A  few  hours  after  I  started,  the  sky  became  covered 
with  clouds,  and  a  little  after  midnight  it  began  to 
drizzle  on  me.  About  four  in  the  morning,  while  it  was 
still  raining,  I  found  the  only  barn  that  I  ever  saw  in 
Germany  which  was  not  either  partially  inhabited  by 
the  people  themselves,  or  so  near  their  house  as  to  be 
useless  as  a  hiding-place.  It  stood  in  a  pasture,  by  itself, 
and  looked  inviting. 

The  finding  of  this  barn  was  but  one  of  the  many  in 
stances  where  Providence  helped  me  on  my  journey. 
It  rained  continually  until  about  four  of  the  following 
afternoon.  By  this  time,  as  I  had  walked  all  the  way 
with  wet  feet,  they  were  beginning  to  trouble  me,  and 
to  have  a  dry  place  for  the  day  was  a  great  advantage. 
Inside  the  barn  I  had  hopes  of  finding  some  hay,  but  in 
this  I  was  disappointed.  I  had,  however,  a  dry  floor, 
and  lying  down  in  my  wet  clothes,  immediately  fell 
asleep  from  exhaustion,  but  soon  woke  and  found  it  too 
cold  to  sleep  any  more.  When  I  woke  it  was  getting 
light.  I  kept  myself  warm  during  the  day,  taking  my 
swimming  exercises,  and  my  clothes  soon  dried  on  me, 
except  my  shoes,  which  I  had  taken  off  immediately 
upon  stopping.  No  one  came  near  the  barn  during  the 
rain,  but  in  the  evening  the  farmers  came,  and  I  could 
hear  them  talking  outside.  Once  they  opened  the  door 
of  the  shed  below  and  came  in.  For  a  while  I  thought  it 
was  all  up  with  me;  but  they  never  came  into  the  loft 
where  I  was  hiding,  and  all  was  well.  As  darkness  came 
on,  I  put  on  my  shoes  and  started  out  again. 

I  was  feeling  fine,  and  after  a  few  hours  on  the  road 
which  was  winding  down  into  a  mountain  valley,  I  saw 
before  me  a  town  of  considerable  size.  It  was  the  town  of 


334  THE  AIRMAN'S   ESCAPE 

Neustadt,  the  largest  through  which  I  passed  during 
my  journey.  All  roads  led  through  the  town.  I  therefore 
decided  to  trust  to  the  similarity  of  my  costume  to  the 
German  uniform  and  bluff  my  way  through.  It  was 
about  10.30  P.M.,  and  though  the  streets  were  already 
mostly  deserted,  it  was  not  late  enough  for  a  wayfarer  to 
be  looked  upon  with  particular  suspicion. 

I  met  a  lone  woman,  who  spoke  to  me;  but  my 
bearing  was  so  haughty  as  not  to  encourage  familiarity. 
I  next  passed  a  hotel,  through  the  windows  of  which  I 
could  see  many  soldiers  in  uniform.  No  one  was  outside 
as  I  passed  in  front  of  the  brightly  lighted  door;  but  after 
I  had  gone  beyond  about  twenty-five  steps,  the  door 
opened  and  a  German  officer,  or  someone  who  appeared 
to  me  to  be  one,  stepped  out  and  started  down  the 
street  behind  me.  In  all  my  experience  I  have  never 
seen  a  German  walk  so  fast  as  he  did.  I  almost  had  to 
drop  my  dignity,  in  order  to  prevent  him  shortening  the 
distance  between  us.  I  tried  to  make  speed  and  hold  an 
external  appearance  of  indifference,  while  internally  all 
was  in  a  turmoil.  Thus  pressed,  I  marched  across  an  over 
head  bridge  spanning  both  river  and  railroad,  and  though 
it  was  nip  and  tuck,  I  think  we  came  over  with  the  dis 
tance  between  us  lengthened  a  little.  I  don't  think 
anyone  could  have  outwalked  me  under  those  circum 
stances.  Once  over,  the  German  soon  relieved  me  from 
the  ever-increasing  fear  that  he  was  following  me  by 
turning  into  another  street.  Then  I  met  five  women  com 
ing  from  work.  These,  I  fear,  had  a  good  look  at  me, 
but  I  passed  inspection.  I  then  heard  a  noisy  party  of 
five  or  six,  but  by  turning  down  a  dark  street,  allowed 
them  to  pass  and  returned  to  my  route  behind  them. 


THE  AIRMAN'S  ESCAPE  335 

Just  at  the  edge  of  the  town,  the  road  began  to  climb 
again  into  the  mountain  forest.  Here  I  came  up  behind 
an  old  man  carrying  a  heavy  burden  on  his  back.  His  pro 
gress  was  very  slow,  and  his  appearance  quite  harmless, 
so  I  determined  to  pass  him.  As  I  approached  within 
about  five  steps,  he  lowered  his  burden  to  the  ground,  to 
rest,  which  caused  him  to  turn  and  face  me.  I  was  by 
this  time  beyond  the  lights,  and  I  passed  him  without 
difficulty,  grunting,  "Guten  Nacht." 

The  road  soon  began  to  wind,  and  after  about  an 
hour's  walk,  climbing  all  the  while,  I  came  out  in  a 
clearing  on  the  side  of  the  mountain,  overlooking  the 
town,  within  a  stone's  throw  below.  I  stopped  and 
rested,  realizing  that  I  had  used  a  lot  of  my  strength  and 
gained  very  little  distance  on  my  journey.  The  lights 
and  hum  of  the  mills  coming  up  through  the  fog  from 
the  town  in  the  valley  below  held  a  weird  attraction,  and 
I  seated  myself  on  a  fallen  tree  and  watched. 

While  I  was  sitting  here,  it  began  to  drizzle  again.  A 
clock  in  the  town  below  chimed  the  hour  of  midnight.  I 
turned  again  into  the  forest.  Though  I  never  had  any 
very  definite  belief  in  anything  on  the  subject,  my  expe 
rience  during  this  journey  almost  made  me  a  believer  in 
guardian  angels.  Never  did  I  feel  lonesome,  or  even 
alone,  during  all  that  trip,  Several  times  I  waked  to 
hear  someone  speaking.  During  the  next  hour  or  so,  I 
had  much  need  for  the  assistance  of  my  Guardian 
Angel.  My  road,  still  climbing  the  mountain,  led  south. 
After  a  little  it  began  to  grow  narrower  and  narrower, 
until  it  vanished  in  the  forest.  I  could  not,  however, 
force  myself  to  turn  and  retrace  my  steps.  With  my 
compass  I  labored  my  way  on  through  the  forest  in  a 


336  THE  AIRMAN'S  ESCAPE 

constant  rain,  hoping  soon  to  hit  another  road  leading 
down  on  the  other  side.  I  realized  the  danger  of  my 
blind  groping;  often  an  unseen  hand  seemed  to  halt 
me  just  on  the  verge  of  danger,  and  I  would  be  more  and 
more  cautious  without  knowing  what  I  had  really 
avoided.  Once  I  stepped  into  space  and  down  I  went. 
My  fall  was  short,  and  with  only  a  few  scratches  I  came 
to  a  stop  on  a  ledge  covered  with  low  underbrush.  I 
could  only  feel  my  way  along.  When  looking  straight 
up,  I  could  sometimes  see  the  dim  glow  of  the  cloud- 
covered  sky  above  the  tree-tops. 

I  stepped  back  into  the  uncut  forest,  where,  because 
of  the  absence  of  underbrush,  I  could  make  my  way, 
and  repeatedly  tried  to  skirt  this  barrier.  At  every  turn 
it  faced  me.  I  would  stumble  and  fall,  often  lying  where 
I  fell,  almost  dropping  off  to  sleep.  Always  I  would 
wake  with  a  start,  thinking  that  I  had  just  heard  a  com 
panion  calling  to  me  not  to  weaken.  Finally,  I  just 
stumbled  into  another  road  which,  though  not  going  in 
my  direction,  I  unhesitatingly  took  and  started  down 
the  mountain.  This  road  conducted  me  to  a  highway 
going  in  the  proper  direction,  and  with  what  strength 
I  had  left  I  struck  out  to  make  as  much  progress  as  pos 
sible  for  the  rest  of  the  night.  After  this  experience  I 
tried  to  stick  to  roads  which  appeared  to  be  big  high 
ways,  and  a  telephone  line  along  them  gave  me  great 
assurance. 

I  walked  very  late  that  morning,  trying  to  make  up 
for  some  of  my  lost  time;  and  finally,  after  exposing  my 
self  to  great  danger,  had  to  drop  in  a  little  wet  wood, 
where  I  spent  a  very  uncomfortable  day.  That  night 
(the  night  of  the  9th  and  10th),  I  made  my  longest 


THE  AIRMAN'S  ESCAPE  337 

stage.  I  passed  through  Hausern  about  11  o'clock, 
where,  from  the  road-crossing  signboard,  I  found  the 
main  highway  to  Waldshut.  This  I  followed  for  the  re 
mainder  of  the  night,  stopping  for  the  day  within  a  few 
kilometres  of  Waldshut.  After  waking  from  my  first 
sleep  of  exhaustion,  I  found  that,  where  I  was  lying,  I 
was  exposed  to  the  cold  mountain  wind,  and  though  it 
was  getting  light,  I  walked  on  for  a  little  distance,  in. 
order  to  find  a  more  protected  place  to  spend  the  day. 

Realizing  that,  if  nothing  happened,  I  would  come  to 
the  passage  of  the  last  ditch  —  the  Rhine  —  that  night, 
I  ate  heavily  of  my  reserve  dry  strength-producing 
food.  In  fact,  I  had  left,  when  I  started  that  night,  only 
one  box  of  hard-tack  biscuits  and  three  lumps  of  my 
precious  sugar.  Sugar  I  found  to  be  the  very  best 
ration  for  such  a  journey.  Its  stimulating  effect  was 
quickly  felt,  and  it  heated  me  better  than  any  food. 

Before  starting  that  night,  I  took  off  all  my  clothes 
and  put  on  first  those  in  which  I  intended  to  make  the 
swim,  adjusting  them  very  snugly  and  tightly,  taking 
up  all  slack  with  strings.  Over  these  I  put  my  other 
clothing,  to  keep  me  warm  till  the  time  came. 

in 

About  eleven  o'clock  that  night  of  the  tenth  of  Octo 
ber  I  came  to  the  Rhine  at  Waldshut.  In  order  to  make 
sure  that  I  was  not  mistaken  in  my  location,  or  misled 
by  the  signboards  along  the  road,  I  climbed  up  on  a  hill 
overlooking  the  city  and  carefully  compared  the  coun 
try  below  with  my  map. 

Having  satisfied  myself  that  the  country  which  I  saw 
before  me,  across  the  river,  was  Switzerland,  I  began  to 


338  THE  AIRMAN'S  ESCAPE 

plan  to  make  the  swim.  In  the  drawing  of  our  many  and 
various  maps,  some  of  the  boys  would  use  different 
means  of  designating  Switzerland.  I  had  labeled  the 
Swiss  territory  on  my  map  "The  Promised  Land,"  and 
I  wondered,  while  standing  on  this  mountain  looking 
over  into  Switzerland,  if  I,  like  Moses,  would  only  be 
allowed  thus  to  look  into  it.  Though  I  do  not  think  it  an 
admirable  trait  in  a  man  to  expect  the  Lord  to  help  him 
out  of  all  tight  places,  and  then  not  live  up  to  his  teach 
ings  after  he  has  safely  come  through,  I  guess  there  are 
not  many  who  have  not  at  some  time  called  upon  the 
assistance  of  the  Lord.  Here  I  thanked  Him  for  having 
taken  care  of  me  thus  far,  and  prayed  for  his  further 
assistance. 

From  the  hill  I  could  get  a  favorable  view  of  the 
river  for  some  distance.  I  risked  a  place  where,  because 
of  the  bend  in  the  river,  I  knew  that  the  current  after 
hitting  this  bank  would  bound  back  toward  the  other 
bank.  I  determined  to  undertake  the  crossing  here,  just 
below  the  bend,  because  I  knew  that  at  this  place  near 
the  bank  I  would  find  an  eddy  of  comparatively  still 
water,  and  that  as  soon  as  I  hit  the  current  it  would 
have  a  tendency  at  first  to  carry  me  towrard  the  other 
bank.  About  a  mile  downstream,  the  river  took  a  re 
verse  curve,  and  here  I  knew  the  current  would  be  hard 
against  the  opposite  bank.  I  hoped  to  make  the  other 
shore  before,  or  at  least  by  the  time,  I  reached  this  curve, 
thus  taking  the  benefit  of  every  possible  advantage. 

\Yhen  I  approached  this  place,  I  found  that  the  de 
scent  to  the  water  would  be  comparatively  easy,  also. 
It  was  well  after  midnight  by  now.  I  ate  the  last  lumps 
of  my  sugar  and  part  of  the  box  of  crackers.  I  was  nerv- 


THE  AIRMAN'S  ESCAPE  339 

ous  to  be  off,  but  wanted  to  make  sure.  I  lay  there  and 
watched  for  about  three  hours,  and  during  that  time  no 
guard  appeared  near  the  spot  where  I  intended  to  start 
my  swim.  The  only  sound  that  came  up  to  me  was  the 
constant  voice  of  the  river.  The  swift  current  kept  up  a 
ceaseless  little  roar,  punctuated  by  the  noise  of  the 
whirlpools  which  came  and  went  here  and  yonder. 

I  did  not  underestimate  the  crossing  of  this  last  ditch, 
in  the  impassableness  of  which  the  Germans  had  so 
much  confidence  that  they  considered  no  other  barrier 
necessary  to  protect  the  frontier.  I  knew  that  its  swift 
and  treacherous  current  was  made  up  from  the  melting 
snow  of  the  mountains  above,  and  that  its  temperature 
was  so  low  that  no  ordinary  constitution  was  strong 
enough  to  withstand  it  more  than  a  few  minutes.  I  had 
heard  in  camp  of  a  little  cemetery  near  Basel,  filled  with 
the  dead  bodies  of  Russian  prisoners  who  had  attempted 
to  swim  the  river.  I  had  known  and  considered  these 
things  from  the  beginning,  however,  and  they  did  not 
disturb  me  now. 

Once,  during  the  time  that  I  lay  there,  from  up  the 
river  a  big  searchlight  shot  its  rays  over  the  water  for  an 
instant  and  was  gone  again.  It  was  by  now  about  four 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  I  took  off  all  my  clothes,  except 
those  in  which  I  intended  to  try  to  make  the  swim,  and 
one  olive-drab  shirt,  which  I  kept  on,  to  hide  the  white 
ness  of  my  undershirt,  but  all  unbuttoned  and  ready  to 
throw  off  very  quickly.  I  put  my  compass,  map,  and 
German  pictures,  which  I  wished  to  carry  over  with  me, 
in  my  pocket.  I  opened  in  my  hand  my  big  knife  and 
started  to  creep  down  to  the  water's  edge.  I  had  not 
bought  this  knife  with  the  intention  of  using  it  as  a 


340  THE  AIRMAN'S  ESCAPE 

means  of  violence,  because  violence  generally  would  not 
pay,  and  would  get  one  in  great  difficulty  if  captured 
afterwards.  I  felt,  however,  that  if  anyone  attempted  to 
stop  me  just  on  the  border  of  the  Promised  Land,  I 
would  stop  at  nothing  rather  than  be  taken. 

So  slow  and  careful  was  my  progress  that  it  took  me 
about  an  hour  to  cover  the  few  yards  down  to  the 
water's  edge.  I  had  to  cross  a  railroad  and  a  road  wrhich 
ran  parallel  to  the  river.  As  I  lay  just  at  the  edge  of  the 
water,  like  a  lizard,  with  eyes  and  ears  alert,  ready  to 
slip  in,  I  heard  a  clock  strike  five.  It  was  thus  that  I 
knew  the  exact  time  of  crossing  the  river;  I  knew  also 
that  I  did  not  have  much  time  to  spare,  for  soon  the  day 
would  begin  to  break.  After  that,  all  was  quiet  but  the 
river  before  me,  whose  voice  was  never  silent  as  it  tum 
bled  on,  with  a  current  in  the  centre  of  seven  kilo 
metres  an  hour.  I  got  to  my  feet  and,  still  crouching  low, 
stepped  into  the  water.  As  I  had  expected,  near  the  bank 
it  was  practically  still.  The  bank  went  down  steeply,  and 
I  saw  that  I  could  make  no  distance  wading.  I  stripped 
off  my  O.D.  shirt,  dropping  it,  with  my  knife,  in  the 
water,  set  my  eyes  on  the  opposite  bank,  and  uttering  a 
short,  silent  prayer,  shoved  out  into  the  stream.  I  knew 
then  that  I  had  my  liberty.  The  chance  of  recapture  was 
past.  Either  I  would  soon  be  on  neutral  soil  and  a  free 
citizen,  or  I  would  have  a  place  in  the  little  cemetery  at 
Basel. 

After  a  few  strokes,  I  saw  that  my  shoes  about  my 
neck  would  be  too  great  a  hindrance,  and  I  cast  them  off 
into  the  river.  For  a  while  I  swam  quietly  but  swiftly, 
expecting  any  moment  to  hear  an  alarm  given  and  to 
become  the  target,  under  the  rays  of  a  searchlight,  for 


THE  AIRMAN'S  ESCAPE  341 

the  German  sentries  who  were  sure  to  be  not  far  away. 
But  nothing  of  the  kind  happened,  and  after  a  little  I 
felt  myself  pass  from  the  eddying  waters  into  the  swift 
current,  which  picked  me  up  and  hurled  me  on  at  a 
tremendous  rate.  I  knew  then  that  the  time  for  my  ut 
most  effort  was  at  hand.  I  knew  that  the  treacherous 
current,  which  was  now  kindly  assisting  me  out  toward 
the  centre,  would,  after  I  reached  that  point,  have  a 
similar  tendency  to  hold  me  in  the  centre.  I  laid  aside 
my  caution,  and  raising  my  arms  out  of  the  water,  put 
forth  my  best  effort. 

By  this  time  I  began  to  be  affected  by  the  temperature 
of  the  water,  my  head  became  dizzy,  and  for  a  while  I 
thought  I  was  about  to  lose  my  grip  on  myself.  All  was 
confusion  about  me.  I  feared  that  I  might  mistake  the 
bank  I  had  left  for  the  bank  I  was  going  toward.  I 
struggled  hard  to  right  things  in  my  head  and  eyes  and 
maintain  control  of  my  body.  In  the  background  of  my 
mind,  I  remember,  I  began  to  wonder  whether,  if  I  were 
drowned,  I  would  be  put  in  the  little  cemetery  with  the 
Russians,  or  whether  they  would  start  an  American  one. 

After  a  few  moments,  however,  I  felt  better  and  my 
head  cleared.  I  threw  every  ounce  of  my  strength  into 
the  effort.  Though  I  had  won  one  attack,  I  felt  the 
temperature  taking  a  firmer  hold  on  me.  Also,  I  knew 
that  at  any  moment  I  might  strike  a  whirlpool.  So  I 
swam  as  fast  as  I  could.  When  within  about  twenty- 
five  feet  of  the  other  bank,  which  was  shooting  by  like 
scenery  out  of  any  express-train  window,  my  hand 
touched  the  bottom.  I  immediately  attempted  to  land, 
but,  though  the  water  was  not  waist-deep,  I  could  not 
stand  against  it,  and  my  feet  not  taking  firm  hold  on 


342  THE  AIRMAN'S  ESCAPE 

the  bottom,  I  was  thrown  full  length  down  the  stream. 
There  I  got  my  first  ducking.  I  soon  recovered  myself, 
however,  and  allowing  myself  to  go  down  freely  with 
the  current,  kicked  toward  the  bank  with  one  foot  on 
the  bottom.  With  every  step  I  went  downstream  fifteen 
or  twenty  feet.  After  a  few  steps,  and  when  very  close, 
the  bottom  again  disappeared,  and  I  had  to  swim.  I  was 
in  the  bend  of  the  river  which  I  had  seen  from  the  moun 
tain  on  the  other  side,  and  the  bank,  being  steep  and 
well  washed,  was  passing  me  like  an  express  train.  At 
first  my  grasp  at  the  bank  was  futile;  but  I  scratched 
and  clawed  along  for  a  good  many  feet,  and  finally  suc 
ceeded  in  stopping  the  bank. 

When  I  pulled  myself  out,  I  was  not  able  to  stand  up. 
I  was  very  much  afraid  of  falling  back  in  the  river  in  my 
dizziness.  My  physical  distress  was  too  great,  and  my 
danger  still  too  apparent,  to  enjoy  at  first  the  fact  that  I 
had  reached  the  neutral  shore.  I  kept  on  all  fours,  work 
ing  my  muscles  as  hard  as  I  could,  to  stimulate  circu 
lation.  After  a  little  I  was  able  to  crawl  up  the  bank, 
where  I  ran  around  on  all  fours  like  a  dog,  until  I  was 
able  to  stand  up.  I  then  took  off  my  wet  clothes,  wrung 
them  out,  and  put  them  on  again. 

On  both  the  Swiss  and  German  sides,  the  course  of 
the  river  is  here  followed  by  a  national  highway  and  a 
railroad.  About  500  yards  from  where  I  came  out  I  saw 
a  small  railroad  house,  in  which  lived  the  man  whose 
duty  it  is  to  raise  and  lower  the  gates  for  the  regulation 
of  the  traffic  at  the  crossing.  I  made  haste  to  this  house 
and  threw  myself  on  the  hospitality  of  the  old  man,  who 
met  me  at  his  gate. 

I  can  never  forget  the  hospitality  of  this  old  peasant. 


THE  AIRMAN'S   ESCAPE  343 

He  certainly  "came  through"  with  all  that  could  have 
been  expected  of  him.  In  fact,  the  same  is  true  of  every 
Swiss  with  whom  I  came  in  contact. 

He  took  one  look  at  me  and  knew  my  story.  Paying 
not  the  slightest  attention  to  my  chattering  mixture  of 
French  and  English,  he  led  me  into  his  house.  As  he 
entered,  he  took  off  his  overcoat  and  put  it  around  me. 
He  drew  a  chair  before  his  fire  and  brought  a  big  pair  of 
wooden-bottom  shoes.  While  doing  these  things  for  my 
comfort,  he  said  nothing  and,  as  he  did  not  stop  to  try  to 
understand,  I  too  fell  silent.  Turning  to  his  stove,  he 
poured  out  a  bowl  of  hot  goat's  milk  and  brought  it  to 
me. 

I  took  a  few  big  swallows,  and  as  the  warm  milk  went 
down,  I  looked  up  at  him  standing  there  with  the 
pitcher  ready  to  refill  my  bowl.  Then  it  was  that  thank 
fulness  and  happiness  flowed  over  me.  I  will  not  at 
tempt  to  say  how  I  felt.  From  my  expression  he  again 
saw  my  feeling.  Then  it  was  that  he  spoke.  It  was  the 
first  time  that  he  had  said  a  word,  and  although  he  still 
looked  on  me  with  his  kindly  expression,  his  words  were 
German.  I  had  thought  that  the  Swiss  all  spoke  French. 
Instantly  a  cold  dread  seized  me.  My  mind  flew  back  to 
the  time,  two  and  a  half  months  ago,  when  I  had  first 
heard  that  accent.  I  had  been  mistaken  then  as  to 
where  I  was,  and  like  a  ghost  the  idea  seized  me  that 
perhaps  I  was  again  in  the  same  error.  I  almost  dropped 
the  bowl  of  milk  as  that  idea  stung  me.  With  an  effort, 
I  asked  him  if  he  were  Swiss.  Reading  my  consterna 
tion,  he  assured  me  that  he  was  Swiss,  this  was  Switzer 
land,  and  I  was  all  right. 

Life  again  flowed  back  into  me.  I  drank  the  hot  milk, 


344  THE  AIRMAN'S  ESCAPE 

and  while  he  refilled  my  bowl  I  told  him  that  I  was 
an  American  escaped  from  Germany.  This  he  already 
knew,  and  the  knowledge  increased  his  interest  in  me.  I 
asked  him  for  a  telephone,  that  I  might  telephone  Berne. 
He  said  that  he  did  not  have  one,  but  after  breakfast  he 
would  take  me  to  the  military  post  nearby,  where  I 
could  find  one.  He  told  me  that  his  wife  was  away  and 
he  was  doing  the  cooking  for  himself  and  his  two  little 
boys,  who,  appearing  to  be  about  seven  and  nine  years 
of  age,  were  displaying  great  interest  in  me.  Of  course, 
I  could  not  speak  his  Swiss  German,  but,  with  a  few 
words  and  my  experience,  I  can  converse  on  simple  and 
apparent  subjects  with  almost  anyone. 

I  warmed  myself  before  his  fire  while  he  busied  him 
self  with  his  household  duties.  In  a  few  minutes  break 
fast  was  prepared.  He  placed  a  large  bowl  in  the  centre 
of  the  table,  and  he  and  his  two  boys  and  I  sat  about  it. 
Each  had  a  large  spoon,  and  all  ate  out  of  the  common 
bowl. 

Breakfast  over,  we  started  out  for  the  military  post  — 
rather  a  long  walk.  There  a  Swiss  soldier  who  spoke 
English  took  charge  of  me.  He  brought  me  a  complete 
outfit  of  dry  clothes.  The  old  peasant  was  given  back 
his  overcoat  and  shoes,  and  I  was  soon  dry-clad  in  a 
Swiss  uniform  from  shoes  to  hat.  I  was  again  fed. 
Though  I  had  just  had  one  big  breakfast,  I  felt  equal  to 
two,  or  even  more. 

This  post  was  just  across  the  river  from  Waldshut. 
From  the  windows  I  could  look  right  over  into  the  Ger 
man  town,  and  could  see  the  guard  at  both  ends  of  the 
railroad  bridge. 

I  was  informed  that,  there  being  only  a  non-commis- 


THE  AIRMAN'S  ESCAPE  345 

sioned  officer  in  charge  of  this  post,  I  would  have  to  be 
taken  to  Zurich.  While  waiting,  we  went  into  a  cafe, 
where  the  soldier  bought  me  a  drink  of  cognac,  as  I  still 
felt  chilled. 

We  got  to  Zurich  about  eleven  o'clock,  after  quite  an 
interesting  trip.  My  guard,  guide,  or  companion,  what 
ever  you  might  call  him,  would  explain  my  identity  to 
people  at  the  different  places  where  we  stopped.  Once 
our  road  ran  along  the  Rhine,  and  I  could  look  over  and 
see  the  German  guards  along  the  other  bank.  At  Zurich 
I  went  before  the  commandant.  I  had  to  pass  a  physical 
examination,  and  after  I  had  proved  myself  to  have  ex 
cellent  health,  he  gave  a  little  note  to  my  guard,  and  sent 
me  out  to  buy  an  outfit  of  clothes. 

I  had  dinner  here,  and  at  two  o'clock  was  sent  by 
train  to  Reinfelden,  to  the  commanding  general  of  the 
frontier. 

I  was  then  sent  out  to  -  — ,  where  I  again  found  my 
credit  unlimited.  I  ate  a  fine  dinner,  had  a  bath,  and 
hopped  into  a  good  feather-bed.  I  had  said  to  the 
landlord  during  dinner  that  I  had  been  unable  to  get 
entirely  warm  since  coming  out  of  the  river.  My  chill 
had  been  so  great  that  I  had  never  got  my  blood  to  cir 
culating  right.  Every  now  and  then  a  cold  shiver  would 
run  over  me,  though  there  was  no  reason  for  my  being 
cold.  When  I  got  into  this  bed,  I  found  the  biggest 
hot-water  bottle  in  there  that  I  ever  saw.  The  landlord 
meant  to  see  that  I  got  "thawed  out."  It  had  been  two 
and  a  half  months  since  I  had  been  in  a  comfortable  bed, 
and  five  nights  since  I  had  been  in  any.  You  may  imag 
ine  from  that  how  I  felt  when  I  crawled  into  this  one.  I 
sank  down  in  it,  and  if  ever  a  man  was  happy,  I  was. 


346  THE  AIRMAN'S  ESCAPE 

With  this  perfect  physical  comfort  was  combined  the 
knowledge  that  I  had  won  my  freedom.  I  thanked  the 
Lord  for  my  deliverance,  and  went  to  sleep.  The  warm 
bed,  with  the  big  hot-water  bottle,  did  the  work.  I  got 
so  warm  that  night  that  I  have  n't  felt  cold  since. 

The  next  morning  a  Swiss  officer  called  for  me  and 
we  went  to  Berne.  The  American  military  attache  had 
been  notified,  and  Captain  Davis,  assistant  military 
attache,  met  us  at  the  train.  He  did  not  recognize  me, 
however,  in  my  rustic  civilian  clothing,  as  the  man  he 
came  to  meet,  and  we  missed  him.  The  Swiss  officer  and 
I  went  on  to  the  Swiss  headquarters.  We  were  just  going 
in  when  Captain  Davis  caught  us. 

I  was  in  hopes  that  others  of  the  bunch  had  come 
through,  and,  having  taken  an  unnecessarily  long  time 
myself  to  avoid  danger  of  recapture,  I  expected  to  find 
them  there  ahead  of  me.  None,  however,  had  arrived. 
Captain  Davis  told  me  that  I  was  the  first  American 
army  officer  to  escape. 


NOTES,   QUESTIONS,   AND   COMMENTS 


NOTES,   QUESTIONS,   AND   COMMENTS 

THE   SPIRIT  OF  '17 

MRS.  MARY  HERRICK  SMITH  is  a  sister  of  the  Hon.  Myron  T. 
Herrick,  once  Governor  of  Ohio,  and  a  former  ambassador  to  France. 
We  may  well  wish  that  she  were  a  more  frequent  contributor  to  the 
magazines 

The  writer  is  evidently  portraying  an  actual  experience:  Wells- 
ville,  the  home  of  her  hero,  is  in  southwestern  New  York;  at  Spartan- 
burg,  South  Carolina,  is  located  one  of  the  great  training  camps; 
and  Senator  Wadsworth  was  just  beginning  his  service  in  the  national 
Senate. 

What  qualities  do  you  admire  most  in  this  "young  fellow"? 
What  boyish  traits  does  he  exhibit? 

What  details  show  the  wrriter  both  a  discriminating  and  a  sym 
pathetic  observer  of  life? 

Why  is  the  closing  sentence  especially  effective? 

A  LITERARY  NIGHTMARE 

MARK  TWAIN'S  real  name  was  Samuel  Langthorne  Clemens.  He 
was  born  in  Missouri  in  1835  and  died  in  Connecticut  in  1910.  He 
is  generally  acknowledged  as  the  greatest  of  the  American  humorists. 
A  considerable  portion  of  his  early  work  was  first  published  in  the 
"Atlantic  Monthly." 

How  does  the  writer  skillfully  tempt  us  to  repeat  these  verses? 

Repeat  this  jingle  a  few  times;  is  it  easy  to  learn?  Does  it  stay 
with  you  and  keep  repeating  itself?  Try  to  account  for  its 
fascination. 

Name  some  other  jingles,  or  some  songs,  that  have  "taken  pos 
session"  of  you. 

Does  the  humor  here  lie  principally  in  what  is  said,  or  in  the 
manner  in  which  it  is  said? 

The  author  here  seems  rather  to  talk  to  the  reader  than  to  write 
for  him.  How  does  he  produce  this  effect? 


PERE  ANTOINE'S  DATE-PALM 

THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH  (1836-1907)  holds  a  well-established 
place  in  American  literature  as  a  writer  both  of  verse  and  of  prose. 
He  is  probably  most  widely  known  as  the  author  of  "The  Story  of  a 
Bad  Boy"  and  of  "Marjorie  Daw."  For  many  years  he  was  an 
occasional  contributor  to  the  "Atlantic  Monthly,"  and  from  1881- 
1890  he  was  its  editor.  He  numbered  among  his  literary  friends 
Lowell,  Holmes,  Mark  Twain,  and  Howells;  and  at  his  newly  estab 
lished  home  Longfellow  conceived  his  well-known  poem  "The  Hang 
ing  of  the  Crane." 

As  a  youth,  Aldrich  spent  three  years  in  New  Orleans  and  saw 
"near  one  of  the  streets  immediately  north  of  the  old  cathedral" 
the  date-palm  here  portrayed.  During  these  same  years  the  famous 
British  scientist,  Sir  Charles  Lyell,  visited  the  city,  learned  the  his 
tory  of  the  palm  from  Mr.  Bringier,  the  State  Surveyor,  made 
further  inquiries  among  the  old  people  of  French  descent,  the  Creoles, 
and  described  the  tree  in  practically  the  words  here  attributed  to 
him.  The  legend  as  here  given,  however,  is  supposedly  told  by  a 
Miss  Badeau. 

For  the  quotation  "Get  thee  behind  me,  Satan,"  see  Matthew, 
xvi,  23. 

The  pronunciation  of  a  few  words  here  will  require  attention :  — 

Pere  Antoine  (par  an'twan) :  Father  Anthony 

Ernile  Jardin  (a-mel  zhar-daN') 

Anglice  (ang'les) 

mon  dieu  (mon  dyu) :  a  French  exclamation  =  Heavens! 

mon  pere  (mon  par) :  my  father 

How  does  a  legend  differ  from  an  ordinary  story? 
Are  the  names  here  given  the  characters  in  keeping  with  the  set 
ting  of  the  legend? 

Why  not  begin  the  narrative  with  the  fourth  paragraph? 

What  hints  prepare  for  the  appearance  of  the  palm? 

Try  to  select  one  word  to  characterize  the  spirit  of  the  legend. 

ALEC  YEATON'S  SON 

Gloucester,  the  scene  of  this  ballad,  is  along  the  Massachusetts 
coast,  about  thirty-five  or  forty  miles  from  Aldrich's  birthplace  at 
Portsmouth,  New  Hampshire.  The  poet  may  have  been  prompted 


NOTES,  QUESTIONS,  AND  COMMENTS    351 

to  treat  this  theme  through  the  success  of  Longfellow,  whom  he 
greatly  admired,  in  handling  a  somewhat  similar  subject  in  "The 
Wreck  of  the  Hesperus." 

For  the  reference  to  "a  sparrow's  fall,"  see  Matthew,  x,  19. 

What  in  the  ballad  itself  causes  us  to  feel  that  this  adventure 
happened  long  ago? 

Some  of  the  characteristics  of  the  ballad  are  as  follows :  — 

1.  An  abrupt  beginning. 

2.  The  portrayal  of  simple,  primitive  life. 

3.  The  repetition  of  lines  with  a  slight  variation  in  the  wording. 

4.  The  introduction  of  superfluous  words  to  increase  the  rhythm 
of  the  line. 

5.  The  usual  ballad  stanza  consists  of  four  lines,  —  the  first  and 
third  containing  four  stressed  syllables,  the  second  and  fourth  con 
taining  three.     The  first  and  third  lines  may  rhyme;  the  second  and 
fourth  must. 

Which  of  these  characteristics  do  you  here  discover? 

A  CANADIAN  FOLK-SONG 

WILLIAM  WILFRED  CAMPBELL,  a  Canadian  poet  of  rare  lyric 
charm,  was  born  in  1861,  in  the  province  of  Ontario,  and  died  in 
1918.  He  was  the  author  of  another  selection  in  this  volume,  "Pan 
the  Fallen." 

Is  the  season  here  pictured  late  autumn,  or  winter? 

What  excellent  use  of  contrast  is  here  made? 

Name  three  or  four  qualities  marking  a  good  song.  Which  of 
these  qualities  distinguish  this  song? 

What  lines  here  serve  as  a  chorus  or  refrain?  What  is  the  value  of 
a  refrain  in  a  song?  Why  is  this  an  excellent  refrain? 

THE   CHILDREN'S   CITY 

ELIZABETH  SARA  SHEPPARD  (1830-1862)  was  an  English  linguist, 
musician,  and  writer  of  fiction,  who  passed  most  of  her  brief  life  in 
and  near  London. 

Express  in  a  sentence  of  your  own  the  chief  thought  back  of  this 
story. 

Are  the  names  of  the  three  princes  well  chosen? 


352    NOTES,  QUESTIONS,  AND  COMMENTS 

The  style  of  the  opening  sentence  suggests  that  of  what  familiar 
book?  Why  does  the  writer  begin  so  many  sentences  with  "and"? 

Do  you  here  discover  many  difficult  words,  or  long,  involved 
sentences?  Why  has  the  author  chosen  such  a  style? 

What  indications  do  you  here  find  that  the  author  was  not  an 
American? 

THE  PLUNGE  INTO  THE  WILDERNESS 

JOHN  MUIB  (1838-1914)  was  born  in  Dunbar,  on  the  southeastern 
coast  of  Scotland;  but  when  he  was  about  eleven  years  old,  he  came 
with  his  father  to  the  wilds  of  Wisconsin.  Later  this  naturalist- 
author  wandered  from  the  Arctic  to  Australia,  but  he  felt  most  at 
home  among  the  glaciers  and  the  great  trees  of  our  own  West.  For 
his  splendid  service  in  helping  to  save  one  of  the  greatest  natural 
wonders  of  the  West,  he  has  been  called  "  the  father  of  the  Yosemite." 

The  extracts  here  given  from  the  story  of  his  boyhood  days  in 
Central  Wisconsin  are  only  a  few  of  the  fascinating  pages  to  be  found 
in  his  "Story  of  My  Boyhood  and  Youth." 

What  details  best  illustrate  the  author's  keen  observation  of  ani 
mal  life? 

What  details  bring  out  forcefully  the  hardships  of  the  frontier  life? 

What  kind  of  a  man  was  his  father? 

Notice  the  easy,  colloquial  tone  of  writing.  How  does  he  make  us 
feel  almost  as  if  he  were  talking  to  us,  face  to  face? 

Do  you  fancy  that  he  had  a  keen  sense  of  humor? 

Select  the  words  which  he  probably  gained  from  his  Scottish 
ancestry. 

THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY 

During  his  student  days  at  Yale  College  FRANCIS  MILES  FINCH 
(1829-1907)  was  editor  of  the  "Literary  Magazine,"  and  throughout 
his  busy  life  as  a  lawyer  and  as  Dean  of  the  College  of  Law  in  Cornell 
University  he  never  lost  his  interest  in  literature.  To-day  he  is 
remembered  chiefly  as  the  author  of  "The  Blue  and  the  Gray," 
which  appeared  in  1867,  when  sectional  feeling  between  the  North 
and  the  South  was  running  high.  The  poem  is  said  to  have  been 
inspired  by  the  fine  spirit  of  women  of  Columbus,  Mississippi,  who 
had  decked  the  graves  of  "both  friend  and  foe."  Near  Columbus 


NOTES,  QUESTIONS,  AND  COMMENTS   353 

flows  the  Tombigbee  River;  it  was  the  scene  of  severe  fighting,  and  is 
probably  "the  inland  river"  of  the  first  line  of  the  poem. 

The  student  will  he  interested  in  noting  how  the  union  of  the  blue 
and  the  gray  is  used  as  the  theme  of  one  of  the  best  of  the  shorter 
poems  evoked  by  the  world-war :  — 

Here  's  to  the  blue  of  the  wind-swept  North, 

As  they  meet  on  the  fields  of  France ! 
May  the  spirit  of  Grant  be  over  them  all 

As  the  sons  of  the  North  advance! 

Here  's  to  the  gray  of  the  sun-kissed  South, 

As  they  meet  on  the  fields  of  France! 
May  the  spirit  of  Lee  be  over  them  all 

As  the  sons  of  the  South  advance! 

Here  's  to  the  blue  and  gray  as  one 

As  they  meet  on  the  fields  of  France ! 
May  the  spirit  of  God  be  over  them  all 

As  the  sons  of  the  flag  advance! 

—  GEORGE  HOWARD  MATS. 

Why  has  "The  Blue  and  the  Gray"  been  widely  known  and  fre 
quently  quoted? 

In  the  second  stanza,  what  is  symbolized  by  the  laurel;  what  by 
the  willow? 

What  lines  in  each  stanza  serve  as  a  refrain?  Note  carefully  how 
the  refrain  is  varied  from  stanza  to  stanza.  What  parts  of  the  refrain 
remain  unchanged? 

Which  do  you  regard  as  the  best  stanza  of  the  poem?  Why? 


A  DAKOTA  BLIZZARD 

"Last  January":  all  over  the  United  States  the  winter  of  1887- 
1888  was  marked  by  storms  of  unusual  severity. 

What  details  best  bring  home  to  you  the  force  of  the  wind?  the 
intensity  of  the  cold?  the  dangers  of  the  storm? 

How  does  this  storm  differ  from  that  described  in  Whittier's 
"Snow-Bound"? 

Does  the  writer  here  express  any  word  of  complaint?  Does  she 
enjoy  the  storm? 

Why  is  the  opening  sentence  a  good  one  for  arousing  our  attention? 
Point  out  some  other  sentence  appropriately  placed  in  this  narrative. 


354    NOTES,  QUESTIONS,  AND  COMMENTS 

MY  REAL  ESTATE 

State  at  least  three  reasons  why  the  writer  loves  this  especial  tree. 
What  sentence  best  suggests  the  spirit  of  the  tree? 
Do  you  know  of  any  such  place  you  should  like  to  own? 
What  purpose  is  served  by  the  first  paragraph?  Might  the  essay 
well  begin  with  the  second  sentence  of  the  second  paragraph? 

MY  CHILDREN 

JOSIAH  G.  HOLLAND  (1819-1880)  was  born  in  Western  Massachu 
setts  and  first  gained  prominence  as  the  editor  of  the  Springfield 
(Mass.)  "Republican."  In  1870  he  became  the  first  editor  of  "Scrib- 
ner's  Monthly,"  later  named  the  "Century  Magazine,"  and  held 
the  position  till  his  death.  He  was  an  untiring  and  versatile  writer  of 
essays,  editorials,  novels,  and  poems.  Two  of  his  volumes  of  verse, 
"Bitter  Sweet"  and  "Katrina,"  were  immensely  popular.  While  he 
can  scarcely  claim  a  sure  place  among  our  greatest  writers,  he  has 
exerted  a  wide,  pure,  and  helpful  influence  upon  American  life. 

State  in  your  own  words  the  differences  between  the  two  children. 

Which  child  does  the  father  like  the  better? 

What  is  the  best  touch  of  humor  in  the  poem? 

Notice  carefully  the  words  chosen,  the  verse  form  used,  and  the 
spirit  of  the  poem,  and  try  to  determine  why  these  verses  move 
lightly  and  rapidly. 

A  STRUGGLE  FOR  LIFE 

In  the  opening  sentence  of  "A  Struggle  for  Life"  Aldrich  intro 
duces  a  detail  from  the  life  he  was  then  living:  he  was  actually  pass 
ing  each  day  through  the  "Boston  Common  which  lay  between  his 
residence  and  his  office";  and  this  same  park  might  readily  have 
furnished  him  with  many  such  realistic  touches  as  that  of  the  boys 
sailing  their  boats.  With  a  similar  semblance  of  truth  he  has  here 
chosen  many  of  the  details  in  his  Parisian  scenes :  the  Place  Vendome 
is  a  famous  square  near  the  heart  of  the  city;  not  far  from  this  is  the 
street  called  the  Rue  d' Aguesseau ;  somewhat  to  the  north,  but  easily 
accessible,  lies  Montmarre,  one  of  the  chief  cemeteries  of  Paris.  Even 
the  newspaper  introduced,  the  "  Moniteur,"  was  at  that  time  the 
official  organ  of  the  French  government. 


NOTES,  QUESTIONS,  AND  COMMENTS    355 

What  different  purposes  are  served  by  introducing  so  many  real 
istic  details  in  the  setting  of  the  story? 

How  do  they  affect  our  belief  as  we  read  the  story?  Do  they 
afford  any  contrast  to  some  other  features  of  the  tale? 

Why  does  the  author  introduce  such  terms  as  "fiacre,"  "salon," 
"surtout"? 

What  double  use  of  surprise  does  Aldrich  here  make?  In  many  of 
his  stories,  including  "Marjorie  Daw,"  he  has  made  a  similar  use  of 
this  same  principle  of  surprise. 

In  what  different  ways  is  our  interest  in  the  hero  excited? 

What  details  introduced  early  in  the  story  are  used  later  in  devel 
oping  the  plot? 

What  devices  are  here  used  to  make  Philip's  entombment  seem  a 
long  one? 

Is  it  true  that  strong  physical  excitement  and  terror  may  thus 
suddenly  change  one's  face  and  hair? 


IPSWICH  BAR 

Ipswich  is  in  the  northeast  county  of  Massachusetts,  a  district 
which  in  memory  of  its  famous  poet  is  sometimes  called  "Whittier- 
land." 

What  different  ballad  characteristics  do  you  here  discover?  (See 
p.  351.) 

In  the  opening  stanzas,  what  purposes  are  served  by  the  careful 
description  of  the  scene? 

Is  the  closing  stanza  especially  appropriate?  Defend  your  answer. 

Alliteration  is  the  repetition  of  the  same  sound  at  the  beginning  of 
two  or  more  neighboring  words.  Point  out  some  illustrations  of 
skillful  alliteration  in  this  poem.  Why  do  poets  frequently  employ 
this  device? 


THE  WILD  MOTHER 

DALLAS  LORE  SHARP  is  a  professor  of  English  in  Boston  Univer 
sity.  He  is  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  "Atlantic  Monthly"  and 
has  published  a  dozen  books  on  outdoor  life.  As  is  well  shown  in  the 
selection  here  given,  he  is  an  especially  patient,  sharp-eyed,  and  sym 
pathetic  observer  of  animal  life. 


356   NOTES,  QUESTIONS,  AND  COMMENTS 

Do  you  know  of  other  instances  of  a  small  mother  animal  defend 
ing  its  young? 

Describe  the  murre  (mur)  from  the  hints  here  given  regarding  its 
appearance. 

Pick  out  some  especially  well-constructed  sentences,  and  try  to 
decide  why  they  are  effective. 

AN  ORDER  FOR  A  PICTURE 

ALICE  GARY  (1820-1871)  was  born  near  Cincinnati,  but  passed  a 
large  part  of  her  literary  life  in  New  York  City.  She  and  her  sister 
Phcebe  published  a  very  considerable  body  of  verse  in  the  magazines 
of  their  day  and  gathered  these  verses  into  volumes  that  met  with  a 
cordial  reception.  Among  her  poems  "An  Order  for  a  Picture  "  is  one 
of  the  most  widely  known. 

Give  two  or  three  reasons  to  account  for  the  popularity  of  this 
poem. 

What  is  to  be  the  central  figure  of  the  picture?  Describe  the  pro 
posed  background. 

What  things  in  life  can  a  painter  most  easily  represent  on  canvas, 
and  what  does  he  find  especially  difficult  to  suggest?  (See,  for 
example,,  line  18.)  Which  of  the  suggestions  here  made  would  be 
especially  helpful  to  him?  Which  might  he  find  it  difficult  to 
include,  or  be  forced  to  exclude? 

What  is  the  season  of  the  year?  Are  there  any  details  here  sug 
gested  that  do  not  fit  the  season? 

How  are  we  reminded  from  time  to  time  that  the  supposed  speaker 
is  addressing  the  painter? 

Does  the  author  wish  this  picture  to  teach  a  lesson?  If  so,  what 
is  it? 

ACCORDING   TO   CODE 

The  brutal  murder,  about  thirty  miles  from  New  York  City,  of  a 
carpenters'  foreman,  whose  murderers  were  known  and  yet  escaped 
punishment  because  of  the  weakness  of  the  sheriffs  and  constables, 
roused  Miss  KATHERINE  MAYO  to  make  a  study  of  the  Pennsyl 
vania  State  Police,  to  tell  their  story  in  her  powerful  book,  "Justice 
to  All,"  and  thus  to  bring  about  the  establishment  of  a  similar  body 
in  New  York  —  the  State  Troopers. 

Unionville,  or  Uniontown,  as  it  appears  on  the  maps,  is  a  city  in 


NOTES,  QUESTIONS,  AND  COMMENTS    357 

southwestern  Pennsylvania;  it  is  connected  by  trolley  with  Liberty- 
ville.  The  scene  of  the  story,  it  may  be  added,  lies  at  no  great  dis 
tance  from  Miss  Mayo's  birthplace,  Ridgeway,  Pa. 

How  has  the  author  skillfully  aroused  our  interest  near  the  begin 
ning  of  the  story?  Are  you  ever  in  doubt  as  to  the  outcome? 

What  details  bring  home  most  vividly  to  us  the  desperate  nature  of 
the  battle? 

What  points  introduced  early  in  the  narrative  are  used  later  ? 

Give  at  least  two  reasons  for  introducing  the  village  constable. 
What  sentence  best  pictures  him  for  us? 

What  different  qualities  distinguish  the  hero?  When  do  you  admire 
him  the  most?  What  sentence  best  reveals  the  secret  of  his  power? 

A  LITTLE  MOTHER 

FLORENCE  GILMORE  is  a  gifted  magazine  writer  whose  present 
home  is  in  Columbus,  Ohio. 

Point  out  at  least  two  purposes  served  by  the  first  two  paragraphs. 

Trace  the  skillful  way  in  which  we  are  told  of  the  child's  home  life. 

What  homely  little  things  come  to  mean  much  in  the  course  of 
the  story? 

Where  do  you  first  suspect  the  child's  great  loss? 

Show  how  her  traits  of  character  brought  out  in  the  third  para 
graph  are  developed  and  illustrated  later. 

Which  of  her  characteristics  most  deeply  rouse  our  sympathies? 

Do  you  here  find  any  unfamiliar  words  or  any  long,  involved  sen 
tences?  Purpose  of  this  style? 

MY  BABES  IN  THE  WTOODS 

Are  any  physical  features  of  the  country  here  described  distinctly 
Southern? 

What  details  bring  out  most  forcefully  the  primitive  life  of  the 
country? 

What  is  the  supervisor's  attitude  toward  his  work  and  these 
people? 

Do  you  here  discover  any  unfamiliar  words?  If  so,  what  do  they 
mean? 

Has  the  author  arranged  his  experiences  in  an  order  of  increasing 
interest? 


358   NOTES,  QUESTIONS,  AND  COMMENTS 

MIANTOWONA 

One  of  the  most  striking  characteristics  of  THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 
was  his  ability  to  turn  rapidly  and  easily  to  many  different  styles  of 
writing.  One  would  scarcely  suspect  that  "A  Struggle  for  Life"  and 
"Miantowona"  came  from  the  same  pen.  In  "Miantowona"  he 
reflects  the  current  interest  in  Indian  legends  which  had  been 
greatly  stimulated  by  the  publication  of  Longfellow's  "Hiawatha" 
in  1855. 

The  Hurons  were  once  a  powerful  tribe  living  near  the  great  lake 
which  bears  their  name. 

Can  you  give  any  other  Indian  legends?  How  does  Longfellow,  in 
the  introduction  to  "Hiawatha,"  characterize  such  stories? 

What  Indian  burial  belief  is  brought  out  in  stanza  ten? 

Repeat  aloud  the  Indian  proper  names,  —  Miantowona,  Wawah, 
Tawanda,  Nahoho, —  and  determine  why  they  are  especially  well 
chosen. 

Do  you  here  discover  any  words  or  phrases  which  the  Indians 
commonly  employed? 

Are  the  comparisons  used  throughout  the  poem  such  as  might 
occur  to  an  Indian? 

Give  two  or  three  reasons  why  this  poem  is  easy  and  rapid  reading. 

OLD  TIMES  ON  THE  MISSISSIPPI 

MARK  TWAIN  was  in  his  twenty-second  year  when  he  began  the 
difficult  task  of  learning  "the  Mississippi  from  New  Orleans  to 
St.  Louis,"  under  the  guidance  of  an  excellent  pilot  named  Horace 
Bixby.  Though  the  author  here  makes  fun  of  his  own  stupidity, 
he  was  really  an  apt  pupil  and  made  such  rapid  progress  that  in 
eighteen  months  he  was  licensed  as  a  pilot.  During  the  two  and  a 
half  years  preceding  the  beginning  of  the  Civil  War,  he  guided  safely 
some  of  the  largest  and  fastest  boats  on  the  Mississippi. 

The  writer  here  skillfully  carries  us  back  to  the  palmy  days  of  the 
river  steamer;  he  invites  us  to  watch  with  him  the  windings  of  that 
shifting,  muddy  stream;  and  he  tells  us  with  humorous  exaggeration 
of  his  trials  in  his  long,  hard  task  as  a  "cub"  pilot. 

Select  the  details  that  most  vividly  picture  for  us  these  early  days 
on  the  Mississippi. 


NOTES,  QUESTIONS,  AND  COMMENTS    359 

Trace  the  skillful  way  in  which  he  is  brought  to  realize  the  diffi 
culty  of  his  task. 

What  are  some  instances  of  his  power  to  put  an  idea  vividly  and 
quaintly? 

Find  some  illustrations  of  his  ability  to  say  absurd  things  gravely. 


THE  BIRD   WITH  THE   BROKEN  PINION 

"Pensive  and  tongue-tied"  is  quoted  from  Arnold's  poem  "The 
Scholar  Gypsy,"  a  treatment  of  the  story  of  a  vagrant  Oxford  stu 
dent  of  the  seventeenth  century.  "The  glorious  Greek "  is  an  allusion 
to  Homer. 

Who  were  Sinbad,  Don  Quixote,  Stevenson,  Matthew  Arnold? 

A  good  title  should  be  brief,  fresh,  attractive,  and  suggestive  of 
the  theme.  Judged  by  these  .standards,  is  this  a  well-chosen  title? 

Would  this  sketch  be  more  interesting,  or  less,  if  the  mystery 
regarding  the  central  character  had  been  solved? 

Show  how  his  distinguishing  traits  mentioned  in  the  first  sentence 
are  illustrated  later. 

Point  out  three  clever  uses  of  contrast. 

What  use  is  here  made  of  the  element  of  surprise?  Why  is  it 
especially  effective? 


THE  SAILING  OF  KING  OLAF 

ALICE  WILLIAMS  BROTHERTON  (Mrs.  William  Ernest  Brotherton), 
who  lives  in  Cincinnati,  is  known  as  a  writer  of  good  prose  and  verse, 
especially  of  some  excellent  children's  verse. 

"The  Sailing  of  King  Olaf "  is  a  free  translation  of  an  old  legend 
which  still  lives  in  Norway,  and  which  may  be  found  in  such  collec 
tions  as  Gruntvig's  "Old  Danish  Ballads,"  II,  143  ff.  Around  the 
name  of  Olaf,  the  king  and  saint,  who  died  in  1030  A.D.,  there  has 
gathered  a  large  body  of  tradition,  including  this  story  of  how  he 
gained  his  kingdom  by  sailing  straight  home  on  the  tide  that  flooded 
the  land  in  his  course.  Several  places  in  Norway  where  the  rocks  are 
parted  from  the  main  land  by  a  channel  claim  the  honor  of  lying 
along  this  course. 

On  the  prow  of  the  King's  ship  was  a  figurehead  suggestive  of  the 
name  of  the  boat,  the  Ox.  This  Olaf  strikes  as  he  commands  the  Ox 


360   NOTES,  QUESTIONS,  AND  COMMENTS 

to  sail  as  fast  as  Skid-blad-nir,  a  magic  boat  made  by  the  elves.  This 
enchanted  ship  was  so  large  that  it  could  hold  all  the  gods  "with 
their  war  and  household  implements,  but  so  skillfully  was  it  wrought 
that  when  folded  together  it  could  be  put  into  a  side  pocket." 

What  is  the  first  incident  that  inclines  us  to  take  sides  with  Olaf 
against  Harold? 

What  added  meaning  do  you  see  in  the  title  after  you  have  read 
the  poem? 

What  characteristics  of  the  ballad  mark  this  poem? 

Which  interested  you  the  more:  the  rapid,  vivid  progress  of  the 
story,  or  the  concluding  moral? 

How  many  verbs  picturing  vigorous  motion  do  you  here  discover? 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  A  ROSE 

NORA  PERRY  (1841-1896)  was  born  in  Massachusetts,  educated 
at  Providence,  Rhode  Island,  and  later  made  her  home  in  Boston. 
She  is  known  chiefly  as  a  writer  of  stories  for  girls. 

In  1780-1781  the  French  allies  of  the  American  revolutionists, 
under  the  command  of  the  Count  de  Rochambeau  (de  ro-shaN-bo'), 
were  stationed  at  Newport,  on  the  south  end  of  Rhode  Island,  for 
merly  called  Aquidnec  Island.  At  a  short  distance  to  the  west  lies 
Connecticut  Island.  "  Hampton  rocks,"  where  the  sloop  was  wrecked, 
are  near  the  southern  edge  of  the  New  Hampshire  coast  line. 

Do  you  here  find  many  details  suggestive  of  colonial  life? 

What  lines  move  rapidly  and  "trippingly  on  the  tongue"? 
Which  move  less  smoothly? 

Notice  that  frequently  the  close  of  the  sentence  and  the  close  of 
the  stanza  do  not  coincide.  Effect? 


THE  AMERICAN  MIRACLE 

MARY  ANTIN  was  born  in  Polotzk  (Po'lotsk),  an  ancient  Russian 
city  about  four  hundred  miles  east  of  the  German  boundary.  In 
1894,  when  she  was  about  twelve  years  of  age,  she  came  to  Boston, 
where  she  made  rapid  progress  in  school  and  gained  many  warm 
friends.  From  time  to  time  she  has  written  of  her  own  life  and  of 
that  of  other  immigrants  to  America  —  "The  Promised  Land." 


NOTES,  QUESTIONS,  AND  COMMENTS    361 

Which  did  you  find  the  most  interesting  details  of  this  narrative? 

How  does  the  author  make  us  feel  that  she  is  telling  a  true  story? 

Is  she  ashamed  of  her  history,  or  is  she  proud  of  it? 

What  are  the  chief  traits  of  her  character  here  emphasized? 

At  times,  as  in  her  description  of  a  banana,  she  employs  a  quaint, 
clever  way  of  putting  her  thought.  Can  you  find  other  illustrations 
of  this  characteristic? 


HOW  I  KILLED  A  BEAR 

CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER  (1829-1900)  was  a  steady  and  tireless 
writer,  who  turned  rapidly  from  one  task  to  another  —  writing 
editorials  for  the  Hartford  "Courant,"  conducting  a  department  in 
"Harper's  Monthly,"  editing  a  "Library  of  the  World's  Best  Litera 
ture,"  and  at  frequent  intervals  publishing  a  book  of  travel,  a  novel, 
or  a  charming  volume  of  essays.  Much  of  what  he  produced  is  now 
passing  into  oblivion;  but  some  of  his  writings,  including  this  paper, 
"How  I  Killed  a  Bear,"  which  later  appeared  as  the  opening  chapter 
of  "In  the  Wilderness,"  seem  destined  to  hold  a  modest  but  secure 
place  in  American  literature. 

Where  are  the  Adirondacks?  Explain  the  allusion  to  Elijah  and 
the  bears.  See  II  Kings,  n,  23.  What  is  the  story  of  the  slave  and 
the  lion  to  which  allusion  is  here  made? 

Do  you  suppose  that  this  encounter  with  the  bear  actually  hap 
pened? 

How  many  of  the  longer  paragraphs  end  with  a  touch  of  humor? 

Why  are  the  beginning  and  the  close  of  this  selection  especially 
effective? 

Where  does  the  author  employ  a  series  of  short  sentences?  What 
is  the  effect? 


HOW  GLOOSKAP  BROUGHT  THE   SUMMER 

FRANCES  LAUGHTON  MACE  was  born  in  183G  near  Bangor,  Maine, 
and  passed  a  large  part  of  her  life  in  the  East,  where  she  gained  a 
modest  reputation  as  a  writer  of  hymns  and  other  verses.  Late  in 
life  she  made  her  home  in  California,  where  she  died  in  1899. 

About  seventy-five  miles  north  of  her  girlhood  home,  near  Bangor, 
lies  Mt.  Katahdin  (Ka-ta'din),  the  scene  of  this  legend. 


362   NOTES,  QUESTIONS,  AND  COMMENTS 

Explain  the  reference  to  the  "aurora,"  line  51. 

On  second  reading  did  you  find  that  any  features  of  the  story  stand 
out  whose  significance  had  escaped  you  on  the  first  reading? 

Which  is  the  better  told,  the  first  or  the  second  division  of  the 
legend?  Which  did  you  find  the  more  interesting?  How  does  the 
movement  of  the  verse  in  the  first  part  differ  from  that  in  the  second; 
which  is  the  more  rapid;  which  is  the  lighter? 

Why  is  the  last  stanza  of  the  first  division  an  excellent  one  for 
closing  that  part  of  the  poem? 

Point  out  some  words  which  we  usually  associate  with  the  Indian 
vocabulary. 

•  Compare  this  legend  with  Aldrich's  "Miantowona."  How  do  they 
differ  in  their  pictures  and  suggestions  of  Indian  life?  Which  do 
you  consider  the  better  poetically? 

An  interesting  comparison  may  also  be  made  between  this  Indian 
legend  and  the  Roman  story  of  Proserpine,  to  be  found  in  Gayley's 
"Classic  Myths." 


THE  BLUE- JAY 

OLIVE  THORNE  MILLER  (born  in  New  York  in  1831),  is  noted 
principally  for  her  intimate  writings  on  birds. 

"The  Blue-Jay"  is  one  of  the  numerous  articles  about  her  feath 
ered  acquaintances  which  Olive  Thorne  Miller  published  in  the 
"Atlantic  Monthly,"  and  which  includes  a  previous  study  of  this 
"small  friend  in  blue."  Look  up  her  story,  the  "  Study  of  a  Cat  Bird," 
between  which  and  the  present  selection  some  interesting  compar 
isons  may  be  made. 

What  very  human  traits  does  the  blue-jay  exhibit?  What  inci 
dents  best  illustrate  his  curiosity?  his  persistence?  Which  show  the 
greatest  intelligence? 

Of  the  various  bird  stories  you  have  read,  which  have  you  found 
most  interesting?  Why? 

What  indications  do  you  find  of  the  writer's  cleverness  in  man 
aging  and  caring  for  birds? 

With  which  has  the  author  here  been  more  successful,  the  opening 
or  the  close  of  her  essay? 

What  characteristics  of  style  marking  this  essay  can  you  definitely 
name? 


NOTES,  QUESTIONS,  AND  COMMENTS    363 

A  YOUNG  DESPERADO 

"A  Young  Desperado"  represents  well  one  side  of  Aldrich's  nature, 
and  served,  perhaps,  as  a  small  preparatory  study  for  one  of  the  most 
delightful  books  ever  written  by  an  American,  his  "Story  of  a  Bad 
Boy." 

What  different  titles  or  epithets  are  here  applied  to  Johnny? 

Show  how  his  characteristics  mentioned  in  the  first  sentence  are 
illustrated  later. 

What  is  the  worst  you  can  say  about  him?  the  best? 

What  appeals  to  you  as  the  most  humorous  of  his  escapades? 

Are  his  exploits  such  as  commonly  characterize  six-year-old  boys? 

From  what  details  might  you  infer  that  this  article  was  not  written 
recently? 

Select  three  instances  where  the  author  has  expressed  his  ideas 
cleverly. 

AT  THE  MANGER 

JOHN  BANISTER  TABB  (1845-1900),  commonly  known  as  "Father 
Tabb,"  was  born  in  Virginia,  and  when  scarcely  more  than  a  boy 
served  as  a  captain's  mate  on  a  Confederate  blockade  runner.  Later 
he  was  ordained  a  Roman  Catholic  priest  and  became  Professor  of 
English  at  St.  Charles  College  in  Maryland.  Many  of  his  beautiful, 
exquisitely  finished  verses  embody  religious  themes. 

What  words  and  phrases  here  bring  out  the  quiet  peace  of  sleep? 
What  is  the  source  of  the  "warmer  glow,"  line  10? 
Suggest  a  sub-title  that  will  make  clear  the  chief  thought  of  the 
poem. 

AT  CHRYSTEMESSE-TYDE 

WILLIS  BOYD  ALLEN  was  born  in  Maine,  educated  at  Harvard 
College  and  at  Boston  University,  and  practised  law  in  Boston.  He 
is  a  prolific  author :  scarcely  a  year  passes  without  one  or  two  books 
from  his  pen.  He  is  best  known  as  the  writer  of  boys'  books,  which 
combine  adventure  with  history  and  travel. 

Why  does  the  author  use  this  old-fashioned  spelling  and  quaint 
diction? 

Why  does  he  choose  the  nest,  the  Iamb,  and  the  leaf  as  emblems 
of  "sorrie"  and  of  "gladde  thynges"? 


364    NOTES,  QUESTIONS,  AND  COMMENTS 

THE    LITTLE    CHRIST 

Comparatively  few  of  her  numerous  readers  know  that  LAUEA 
SPENCER  PORTOR  is  the  pen-name  of  Mrs.  Francis  Pope.  Though  she 
is  connected  with  the  staff  of  a  noted  women's  publication  in  New 
York  City,  she  is  also  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  "Atlantic 
Monthly."  She  is  a  charming  story-teller,  a  writer  of  some  excellent 
verse,  and  the  author  of  many  admirable  essays. 

What  thought  is  uppermost  in  all  the  mother's  replies?  Explain 
the  thought  of  the  last  two  lines. 

What  characteristics  of  the  ballad  (p.  351)  do  you  here  discover? 


Which  of  this  group  is  not  strictly  a  Christmas  poem? 
If  you  did  not  know  the  authors  of  these  poems,  which  should  you 
say  was  written  by  a  woman?  Why? 

Which  is  the  most  musical  of  these  poems? 
Commit  to  memory  the  one  you  like  best. 

A  PARABLE  IN  MOTORS 

An  interesting  comparison  may  be  made  between  this  parable  and 
JSsop's  fable  of  the  boys  and  the  frogs. 

Show  how  the  characteristics  of  the  "elderly  philanthropist" 
stated  in  the  second  sentence  are  illustrated  later  in  the  parable? 

Describe  the  attitude  of  the  writer  toward  this  woman. 

Express  in  a  sentence  the  moral  of  this  parable  as  JEsop's  morals 
are  expressed. 

Write  a  short  parable  or  fable  in  which  a  change  of  circumstances 
induces  someone  to  change  his  point  of  view. 

SCHOOL  CHILDREN  OF  FRANCE 

OCTAVE  FORSANT,  Inspector  of  Schools  in  Rheims  (remz),  France, 
through  the  trying  days  of  bombardment  during  the  war,  not  only 
kept  open  his  schools,  but  encouraged  the  children  to  attend.  In 
spite  of  many  bombardments  during  school-hours,  no  lives  were 
lost  and  none  of  the  children  received  injuries. 

These  four  compositions  were  written  by  French  children  of  eleven 
and  twelve  in  the  examination  for  the  diploma  or  certificate  on  com- 


NOTES,  QUESTIONS,  AND  COMMENTS    365 

pleting  their  elementary  school  course.  The  extracts  from  the  Jour 
nal  are  written  by  the  principal  of  one  of  the  schools  supervised  by 
M.  Forsant. 

What  details  of  the  life  here  pictured  impress  you  as  strange  or 
picturesque?  Which  bring  home  vividly  the  dangers  of  the  war? 

Which  do  you  consider  the  most  interesting  of  these  four  composi 
tions?  Why? 

What  do  you  here  learn  about  each  of  these  children?  Which 
seems  the  bravest?  Which  seems  most  patriotic?  Which  has  the 
best  eye  for  color  effects? 

How  will  these  compositions  compare  in  excellence  with  those 
written  by  American  students  of  the  same  age? 

KEEPING   SCHOOL  UNDER  FIRE 

For  month  after  month  the  city  of  Rheims,  in  northwestern 
France,  was  under  the  fire  of  the  German  guns.  But  even  when  these 
guns  were  blazing  only  a  mile  away,  several  schools  in  that  city  were 
reopened.  The  record  here  given  is  taken  from  the  diary  of  the 
principal  of  the  Dubail  (du-bal')  School.  This  school  was  "installed 
in  a  room  at  the  rear  of  a  basement  store-room,  protected  by  three 
courses  of  reinforced  cement,  and  by  heaps  of  dirt  piled  above  it.  It 
was  lighted  by  eight  small  air  holes,  and  had  direct  access  to  three 
cellars,  one  over  the  other,  the  lowest  of  which  was  not  less  than 
twelve  metres  below  ground." 

Would  Americans  hold  school  under  such  trying  conditions? 

What  is  the  attitude  of  these  teachers  and  pupils  toward  their 
hardships? 

What  qualities  of  a  good  principal  and  teacher  does  the  writer 
exhibit? 

How  do  you  know  that  this  principal  is  a  woman? 

THE   DESERTED   PASTURE 

BLISS  CARMAN  was  born  in  Canada  in  1861,  and  is  one  of  the  fore 
most  of  the  brilliant  little  group  of  Canadian  poets.  He  has  been 
connected  with  the  "Atlantic,"  the  "Cosmopolitan,"  the  "Inde 
pendent,"  and  other  magazines,  and  during  the  past  quarter  of  a 
century  has  published  numerous  books  of  delightful  verse. 


366   NOTES,  QUESTIONS,  AND  COMMENTS 

In  what  section  of  our  country  should  you  judge  this  pasture  lies? 
Why  is  the  second  stanza  one  of  the  most  vivid  in  the  poem? 
Select  a  sub-title  for  the  last  four  stanzas. 

Which  of  the  pictures  suggested  by  these  four  stanzas  do  you  like 
the  best? 

IN  THE  TRENCHES 

Why,  when  he  awoke,  had  the  soldier's  attitude  toward  prayer 
changed? 

What  is  the  most  vivid  detail  in  this  picture  of  the  trenches? 

Select  several  well-chosen,  picturesque  adjectives. 

Study  the  arrangement  of  the  rhymes  in  these  verses.  Do  they 
seem  to  hasten,  or  to  retard,  the  movement? 

In  what  lines  is  the  regular  swing  of  the  verse  interrupted? 
Purpose? 

THE  LAME  PRIEST 

"S.  CARLTON"  is  the  pen  name  of  SUSAN  CARLTON  JONES,  who 
has  published  two  or  three  books  of  fiction  and  has  been  an  occa 
sional  contributor  to  the  "Atlantic." 

The  writer  has  here  treated  very  effectively  the  old  and  widespread 
belief  in  the  werewolf  (wer'wdolf  or  we"r'-),  a  person,  who,  under  the 
curse  of  the  devil  or  through  an  appetite  for  human  flesh,  assumes 
the  form  of  a  wolf. 

Why  are  the  time  and  place  used  as  a  setting  for  this  story  espe 
cially  well  chosen?  Why  not  make  the  location  more  definite? 

Contrast  the  spirit  of  the  opening  paragraphs  with  that  of  the 
main  course  of  the  story.  Trace  the  way  in  which  the  story  tightens 
in  interest.  Where  does  the  interest  rise  to  its  climax?  Is  the  ending 
especially  effective? 

Why  is  the  narrator  represented  as  an  old  man;  as  dim  sighted; 
very  kindly;  a  man  of  strong  common  sense;  quick  and  stubborn  of 
temper;  unusually  brave? 

Point  out  the  different  ways  in  which  it  is  suggested  that  the  priest 
and  the  wolf  are  one;  the  ways  in  which  this  idea  is  combatted. 

Study  carefully  the  words  chosen  to  describe  the  different  move 
ments  of  the  priest;  his  manner  of  speaking;  the  expressions  of  his 
face. 

Give  at  least  two  reasons  why  the  author  has  here  used  a  very 
simple  style  of  narrative. 


NOTES,  QUESTIONS,  AND  COMMENTS   367 

FIRE  OF  APPLE-WOOD 

M.  A.  DE\VOLFE  HOWE,  whose  home  is  in  Boston,  has  been  editor 
of  the  "Harvard  Graduates'  Magazine"  and  a  frequent  contributor 
to  the  "Atlantic." 

In  what  section  of  our  country  do  the  storms  come  frequently 
from  the  east? 

Select  a  sub-title  that  will  help  suggest  the  mood  or  fancy  of  the 
writer. 

Why  is  a  poem  expressing  some  fancy  or  whim  or  some  single 
mood  of  the  writer  usually  short? 

Wliy  has  the  author  here  employed  short,  simple  words? 

SUMMER  DIED  LAST  NIGHT 

What  are  some  other  early  signs  that  summer  is  dead? 
How  does  the  arrangement  of  the  rhymes  help  unify  the  poem? 
What  line  of  each  stanza  is  used  as  a  refrain? 
Could  this  poem  be  set  to  music  easily? 

SAINT  R.  L.   S. 

SARAH  N.  C  LEGHORN  was  born  in  Virginia  but  now  makes  her 
home  in  Vermont.  She  is  well  known  as  a  writer  of  fiction  and  of 
verse  and  as  an  advocate  of  social  reforms. 

Why  is  the  title  especially  well-chosen? 

Name  some  other  books  that  will  take  us  to  romance  land. 

What  different  qualities  make  this  a  charming  little  poem? 

UNAWARES 

With  these  verses  compare  Longfellow's  "The  Arrow  and  the 
Song."  What  is  the  central  thought  in  each?  Is  it  a  true,  helpful 
thought? 

THE  YELLOW  BOWL 

LILY  A.  LONG,  whose  home  is  in  St.  Paul,  Minnesota,  has  contrib 
uted  both  short  stories  and  verse  to  many  of  our  better  magazines. 

State  in  your  own  words  the  central  idea  which  the  author  here 

suggests. 


368   NOTES,  QUESTIONS,  AND  COMMENTS 

What  is  gained  by  giving  this  allegory  an  oriental  setting? 

What  is  the  only  word  used  in  the  rhyme  scheme  of  the  third 
stanza  which  has  not  been  employed  hi  either  the  first  or  the  second 
stanza? 

OUT  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

A  few  years  after  the  events  narrated  in  the  preceding  selection 
(p.  33  ff),  the  Muir  family  moved  to  a  new  farm,  which  they  named 
Hickory  Hill,  just  a  few  miles  from  their  first  home  in  south-central 
Wisconsin.  On  this  new  farm,  like  that  other  Scotch  ploughboy, 
Bobby  Burns,  from  whose  "Tarn  o'  Shanter"  and  "To  a  Mouse"  he 
here  makes  brief  quotation,  John  Muir  was  the  chief  toiler  of  the 
family. 

For  the  reference  to  the  apostle  Paul,  see  I  Corinthians,  n,  2. 

Into  what  three  divisions  may  this  narrative  be  divided?  Which 
interested  you  the  most? 

Which  did  you  find  the  more  attractive  selection,  "The  Plunge 
into  the  Wilderness"  or  "Out  of  the  Wilderness"?  Account  for  your 
preference. 

What  homely  little  features  of  the  writer's  life  here  add  interest  to 
his  narrative? 

What  new  sides  of  his  nature  are  here  presented?  What  incidents 
best  illustrate  these? 

What,  besides  his  novel  inventions,  do  you  fancy  attracted 
strangers  to  him? 

What  eighteenth-century  American  had  a  similar  genius  for  in 
vention?  What  nineteenth-century  American? 

What  is  the  least  attractive  aspect  of  his  father's  character  as  it  is 
here  portrayed?  The  most  attractive? 

Pick  out  some  simple,  forceful  adjectives  or  phrases,  e.g.,  "my 
all-Bible  father." 

Can  you  here  find  any  pet  phrase  which  he  is  fond  of  repeating? 

THE  SCHOOLMA'AM  OF  SQUAW  PEAK 

In  "The  Schoolma'am  of  Squaw  Peak,"  LAURA  TILDEN  KENT 
tells  of  her  experiences  as  a  country  teacher  in  Arizona.  Since  then 
she  has  taught  in  other  rough  but  interesting  districts  of  the  West. 

Several  miles  to  the  north  of  Squaw  Peak,  in  central  Arizona,  is 
the  small  town  of  Camp  Verde,  which  lies  in  the  valley  of  the  Rio 
Verde.  This  stream  flows  close  to  the  home  of  a  family  named  West, 
with  whom  Miss  Kent  was  living  at  the  time  here  described. 


NOTES,  QUESTIONS,  AND  COMMENTS   369 

What  words  and  phrases  help  us  picture  the  nature  of  the  river 
and  of  the  surrounding  country?  Which  describe  vividly  the  move 
ments  of  the  horses? 

In  which  are  you  more  interested,  the  character  of  the  woman  or 
the  story  of  her  adventures? 

Was  she  "brave,"  or  only  "ignorant"? 

CANDLEMAS 

Candlemas:  a  church  festival  on  February  2,  when  the  holy  can 
dles  for  the  year  are  blessed. 

What  is  the  author  here  attempting  to  suggest?  Try  to  select  a 
sub-title  for  the  poem  that  will  make  clear  this  suggestion. 

What  is  the  meaning  in  the  second  stanza  of  "the  miracle  of 
April"? 

Might  that  phrase  be  used  appropriately  as  a  title  for  either  of  the 
succeeding  poems? 

AN  APRIL  MORNING 

BLISS  CARMAN'S  present  home  is  in  southwestern  Connecticut, 
not  far  from  "the  woods  of  Wilton,"  whose  ragged  yet  blazing 
autumnal  foliage  he  pictures  in  the  las*t  poem  of  this  group. 

Which  of  these  details  picturing  an  April  morning  hold  true  of 
your  home? 

Study  carefully  the  adjectives  and  verbs  here  used.  Which  are 
especially  picturesque  and  well  chosen? 

APRIL'S  RETURN 

How  do  the  details  of  the  second  stanza  differ  from  those  of  the 
first? 

Which  of  these  poems  on  April  reflects  more  clearly  the  personal 
feelings  of  the  writer  ? 

A  DAY  IN  JUNE 

What  line  by  Lowell  may  have  suggested  the  title  "A  Day  in 
June"? 

What  line  of  the  same  poem  by  Lowell  is  suggested  by  the  last 
line  here? 


370   NOTES,  QUESTIONS,  AND  COMMENTS 

What  purpose  guided  the  author  in  her  choice  of  details  in  the 
first  five  lines? 

Does  the  bird's  song  destroy  the  effect  of  quiet,  or  does  it  deepen 
it? 

AUTUMN 

In  what  different  ways  does  the  poet  here  develop  the  fancy  of 
Autumn's  gypsy  train? 

Why  are  Bokhara  and  Samarcand  especially  well-chosen  and  sug 
gestive  words? 

Note  how  the  poem  appeals  to  our  different  senses  —  sight,  smell, 
hearing. 

Why  do  we  scarcely  notice  the  absence  of  rhyme  in  this  poem? 


Which  of  this  group  of  lyrics  of  the  seasons  could  easily  be  set  to 
music?  Why? 

Memorize  the  poem  you  like  the  best. 

JONAS  AND  MATILDA 

For  the  allusion  to  the  nature  of  charity,  see  I  Corinthians,  xin,  4. 

Jonas  and  Matilda  are  here*  used  as  type  names  for  English  people. 
What  are  some  other  type  names,  e.g.,  for  an  Irishman,  a  Scotchman, 
a  Chinaman,  a  negro,  a  green  countryman,  a  German  soldier,  an 
English  soldier,  an  American  soldier? 

Where  do  you  begin  to  suspect  the  real  nature  of  "Jonas  and 
Matilda"?  Where  were  your  suspicions  strengthened? 

How  does  your  interest  on  rereading  this  essay  differ  from  that 
of  your  first  reading? 

Where  has  the  author  been  especially  clever  in  expressing  bird 
life  in  terms  of  human  life? 

Is  the  writer  a  man  or  a  woman? 

THE  SCHOOLDAYS  OF  AN  INDIAN  GIRL 

ZITKALA-SA  (pronounced  Shah)  was  born  in  the  northern  part  of 
Dakota,  in  the  winter  of  1876-77,  when  her  tribe,  the  Yankton  Sioux, 
was  fleeing  from  the  government  troops  in  one  of  the  last  of  the  Sioux 
wars.  Her  birthplace  was  an  actual  snowbank.  Her  name,  Zitkala- 
Sa,  signifies  Red  Bird.  After  this  war  the  Yankton  Sioux  settled 


down  011  their  reservation  on  the  Missouri  river  in  South  Dakota  to 
an  entirely  peaceable  life. 

When  about  sixteen  years  old,  Zitkala-Sa  was  taken,  with  a  group 
of  other  Indian  children,  to  Indiana  to  be  educated.  Here  the  name 
of  Gertrude  Simpson  was  bestowed  upon  her  by  the  whites,  and  un 
der  this  name  she  graduated  in  1899  from  Earlham  College,  at  Rich 
mond,  Indiana.  In  the  same  year  she  came  to  Boston  to  study  the 
violin;  and  it  was  while  engaged  in  study  here  that  she  wrote  a  series 
of  three  articles,  descriptive  of  the  life  of  an  Indian  child  in  Dakota 
and  the  experiences  of  such  a  child  in  an  Eastern  school,  with  her 
emotional  reactions  to  the  new  life,  which  were  published  in  the 
"Atlantic  Monthly." 

She  afterward  contributed  sketches  to  other  magazines,  and  was 
the  author  of  a  volume  of  "Old  Indian  Legends,"  illustrated  by  an 
Indian  girl-artist,  Angel  De  Cora,  a  Winnebago.  In  1902  Zitkala-Sa 
returned  to  her  old  home  in  South  Dakota,  and  married  a  member 
of  her  tribe.  She  has  since  resided  at  the  Ute  Agency  at  White  Rock, 
Utah,  where  her  husband  is  in  the  government  service. 

Point  out  instances  of  kindness  to  the  writer  by  the  whites;  in 
stances  showing  a  lack  of  consideration.  Are  her  associates  ever 
purposely  cruel? 

In  what  instances  do  the  Indian  ideas  here  conflict  with  those  of 
the  whites?  Are  the  former  ever  preferable  to  the  latter? 

Should  you  say  the  writer  wras  over  self-conscious?  strong-willed? 

Judging  by  the  evidence  here  offered,  should  you  say  she  made  a 
mistake  in  disregarding  her  mother's  advice  to  return  home? 

What  words  here  used  do  we  associate  with  the  Indian  vocabulary? 

Indicate  three  sentences  in  which  the  thought  is  cleverly  expressed. 

CURBSTONE   THEATRICALS 

That  New  York  City  is  the  scene  of  these  "Curbstone  Theatricals" 
is  shown  by  the  reference  to  Broadway  and  the  Battery,  the  latter  a 
park  of  about  twenty  acres  at  the  southern  tip  of  Manhattan  Island. 

The  two  lines  of  verse  quoted  in  the  first  paragraph  are  from 
Burns's  "Tarn  o'  Shanter";  "Lady  Bountiful"  was  a  "kind-hearted 
country  gentlewoman,"  in  an  early  eighteenth -century  comedy, 
whose  name  is  now  commonly  applied  to  any  charitable  lady. 

What  is  the  story  of  the  "Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin"? 

Show  how  the  idea  suggested  by  the  title  is  developed  in  the  narra 
tion  of  the  incidents. 


372   NOTES,  QUESTIONS,  AND  COMMENTS 

What  is  the  writer's  attitude  toward  these  children  of  the  street? 
Which  is  the  writer,  a  man  or  a  woman? 

Can  you  relate  an  incident  that  illustrates  some  trait  of  character? 
Watch  for  such  incidents  and  report  them  to  the  class. 

THE  WORD 

JOHN  KENDRICK  BANGS  has  been  connected  with  the  editorial 
staff  of  several  of  the  better  periodicals,  including  "Life"  and  "Harp 
er's  Monthly"  and  is  widely  known  as  a  lecturer.  He  has  published 
humorous  fiction,  verse,  farces,  and  criticism  sufficient  to  stock  a 
small  library.  Though  lie  is  known  chiefly  as  a  humorist,  he  has  done 
some  excellent  work  in  a  more  serious  vein. 

Express  in  a  single  sentence  the  central  thought  of  this  poem. 
What  are  some  of  the  common  things  of  everyday  life,  not  men 
tioned  here,  that  may  bring  us  joy? 

Account  for  the  unusual  grouping  of  lines  on  the  page. 
Why  is  the  ending  of  the  poem  especially  good? 

PAX  THE  FALLEN 

Much  of  Mr.  Campbell's  excellent  verse  deals  with  Canadian  life, 
especially  life  around  the  lakes. 

Who  was  Pan?  (See  Gayley's  "Classic  Myths.")  Describe  his 
appearance.  What  details  here  show  us  "Pan  the  Beast"?  Which 
show  us  "Pan  the  God"? 

Does  the  writer  here  try  to  enforce  any  moral? 

Which  is  the  most  musical  stanza? 

LOVE  IS  ALWAYS  HERE 

(Ton jours  Amour] 

EDMUND  CLAREXCE  STEDMAN  (1833-1908)  lived  in  New  York 
City  and  passed  his  days  in  buying  and  selling  stocks  and  bonds  on 
the  Exchange;  but  his  evenings  he  gave  to  literature.  He  is  to  be 
remembered  as  one  of  our  best  American  literary  editors  and  critics, 
especially  in  the  field  of  poetry,  and  as  a  writer  of  much  excellent 
verse,  varying  from  the  serious  and  scholarly  to  the  playfully  tender 
and  gay. 


NOTES,  QUESTIONS,  AND  COMMENTS   373 

Why  is  the  title  of  this  poem  an  extremely  apt  one? 

Why  are  "Dimple-Chin"  and  "Grizzled  Face"  here  especially 
suggestive  names? 

Who  is  meant  by  "the  little  archer  "  of  line  7? 

Point  out  the  resemblances  and  the  differences  in  the  thought  and 
form  of  the  two  replies. 

THE  CHIMES  OF  TERMONDE 

GRACE  HAZARD  CONKLING  (Mrs.  Roscoe  Platt  Conkling)  is  a  grad 
uate  of  Smith  College  and  was  formerly  a  teacher  in  New  York  City. 
Some  of  the  best  of  the  numerous  verses  she  has  published  deal  with 
foreign  scenes.  Termonde  (tar-mond'),  or  Dendemonde,  as  it  is 
sometimes  called,  is  a  Belgian  city  of  ten  thousand  inhabitants, 
between  Brussels  and  Ghent.  Its  most  famous  church,  Notre 
Dame,  was  seriously  damaged  when  the  German  army  occupied  the 
city,  early  in  October,  1914. 

What  feeling  is  uppermost  in  the  writer's  heart? 

Does  the  wording  of  the  poem  ever  suggest  the  sound  of  the  bells? 

Point  out  some  repeated  words  and  phrases,  and  try  to  determine 
their  effect. 

What  purpose  is  here  served  by  the  unusual  arrangement  of  the 
stanzas? 

A  PUPIL  OF  AGASSIZ 

NATHANIEL  SOUTHGATE  SHALER  (1841-1906)  was  the  son  of  a 
Kentucky  physician.  He  received  his  education  at  the  Lawrence 
Scientific  School  of  Harvard  University,  under  the  eminent  Swiss 
naturalist,  Louis  Agassiz  [ag'a-se].  After  his  graduation  Shaler 
served  brilliantly  in  the  Union  army,  and  was  later  made  Professor 
of  Geology  and  finally  Dean  in  the  Lawrence  Scientific  School. 
Through  his  teaching  and  his  numerous  books  he  did  much  to 
advance  the  study  of  natural  science  in  America. 

The  extract  here  given  is  taken  from  that  section  of  his  "Chapters 
of  an  Autobiography"  in  which  he  tells  how,  as  a  youth  of  eighteen, 
he  gave  up  his  chance  of  entering  the  classical  course  at  Harvard  by 
refusing  to  learn  the  rules  of  Latin  scansion  and  then  turned  to  the 
study  of  natural  science.  Shaler  was  first  attracted  to  Agassiz  by  the 
"Essay  on  Classification,"  which  had  recently  appeared  in  the  first 
volume  of  his  "Contributions  to  the  Natural  History  of  the  United 
States." 


374   NOTES,  QUESTIONS,  AND  COMMENTS 

Should  you  judge  that  the  writer  was  a  young  man,  or  an  old  man 
reviewing  his  life? 

Where  does  he  frankly  admit  his  own  weaknesses?  Do  we  respect 
him  less,  or  more,  for  these  admissions? 

What  qualities  did  Agassiz  demand  of  his  pupils?  Show  how  the 
author  gave  evidence  of  possessing  these. 

What  incidents  illustrate  Agassiz's  sympathy;  his  lack  of  conven 
tionality;  his  firmness;  his  shrewdness;  his  enthusiasm  for  his  work? 

Indicate  some  fresh,  crisp  words  or  phrases.  Do  you  here  discover 
many  long,  formal  words? 

THE  MUSKRATS  ARE  BUILDING 

PROFESSOR  SHARP  teaches  in  Boston  University  but  lives  on  his 
farm  at  Hingham,  Massachusetts,  some  fifteen  or  twenty  miles  from 
Boston.  Though  he  has  here  been  unusually  successful  in  portraying 
the  life  of  his  wild  tenants,  he  introduces  occasionally  friendly 
phrases  from  the  world  of  books;  thus,  like  John  Muir,  he  recalls 
Burns's  "To  a  Mouse,"  with  its  "best  laid  schemes  of  mice  and  men 
gang  aft  agley"  (a-gle'=awry).  The  "lean  and  hungry"  cold  sug 
gests  the  description  of  Cassius  in  "Julius  Caesar,"  i,  2,  194;  and  the 
"quick  and  the  dead"  recalls  "Hamlet,"  v,  1,  137.  Similarly  the 
reference  to  the  "rains  descending"  may  be  found  in  Matthew,  vn, 
25;  and  to  Luke,  xn,  18,  maybe  traced  the  allusion  to  the  rich  man 
who  "built  greater  barns. "  Again  the  writer  quotes  the  familiar  old 
nursery  song,  "The  north  wind  doth  blow." 

Summarize  the  most  interesting  things  you  have  learned  from  this 
essay. 

Which  did  you  find  the  most  interesting  of  the  animals  here  des 
cribed?  Why? 

Can  you  name  other  animals,  besides  the  woodchuck  and  frog, 
that  sleep  through  the  winter? 

How  does  the  writer  rouse  our  curiosity  at  the  beginning  of  the 
essay? 

What  sentence  states  the  central  thought  of  the  essay?  How  is  it 
related  to  the  title?  Why  is  the  title  repeated  at  intervals  through 
the  course  of  the  essay? 

What  excellent  use  of  contrast  is  made  in  the  closing  paragraph? 

Point  out  some  well-chosen  comparisons  that  help  make  clear  and 
vivid  the  writer's  ideas. 

Point  out  some  ideas  that  are  very  cleverly  expressed. 

Indicate  two  or  three  instances  of  effective  use  of  alliteration. 


NOTES,  QUESTIONS,  AND  COMMENTS   375 


THE  OFFERING 

OLIVE  CECILIA  JACKS  is  an  Englishwoman  who  has  lived  a  life  of 
rare  culture  and  refinement.  Her  husband  is  L.  P.  Jacks,  Principal 
of  Manchester  College,  Oxford;  her  father  was  Stopford  Brooke,  the 
noted  critic  and  writer 

1.  In  what  sense  did  the  Great  War  make  us  fall  from  our  former 
high  estate? 

2.  Who  are  the  people  that  have  made  atonement  for  the  wrong 
committed  against  the  world? 

3.  Does  Mrs.  Jacks  imply  that  the  dead  suffered  more  than  the 
living? 

4.  To  whom  will  the  world  probably  award  the  highest  praise? 

THE  AIRMAN'S  ESCAPE 

MR.  GEORGE  W.  PURYEAR  is  the  son  of  a  Southerner  who  during 
the  Civil  War  escaped  from  a  Northern  prison.  It  is  interesting 
to  speculate  on  how  much  this  may  have  stimulated  the  son  during 
his  recent  adventure. 

In  a  personal  letter  to  the  Editor  of  the  "Atlantic"  the  author  of 
"The  Airman's  Escape"  vouches  for  the  exact  truthfulness  of  each 
detail.  His  comment  on  possibilities  for  harmless  enlargement  of 
the  story  is  significant. 

The  manuscript  would  have  been  better  reading  had  I  added  some  descrip 
tions,  etc.,  for  pauses,  but  I  wrote  it  more  as  a  record.  When  I  turned  from 
the  Rhine  to  seek  aid  in  a  free  country  I  did  not  stop  to  admire,  or  rave 
about,  the  beauty  of  Switzerland,  the  little  valley  of  the  Rhine  and  the  Aar 
surrounded  by  the  distant  peaks  of  the  Alps  even  then  bathed  in  the  glow 
of  the  coming  day.  I  did  not  stop  to  deeply  inhale  the  sweet  air  of  freedom, 
nor  even  look  back  on  the  grim  mountains  across  the  river  which  marked 
the  Hated  Land  from  which  I  had  escaped.  All  such  might  help  a  story  and 
would  not  alterate  the  facts,  but  I  was  wet,  cold,  weak,  and  hungry.  I 
only  looked  for  the  nearest  possible  relief  and  that  is  what  I  wrote  in  the 
record. 

Note.  —  No  questions  or  comments  have  been  provided  for  this 
story.  Teachers  may  find  it  interesting  to  have  the  pupils  supply 
these. 


SYMBOLS  USED  IN  RESPELLING  FOR  PRONUNCIATION 

The  markings  here  employed  are,   with  some  slight  modifications,  those  used  in 
Webster's  International  Dictionary, 


a  as  in  ale,  fate. 

4  "    "  sen'-ate,  del'-i-c&te. 

a   "    "  care,  pa'-rent. 

A  "    "  fi'-ndsl,  in'-fdnt. 

a   "    "  arm,  far. 

d  "    "  so'-fd,  d'-bound. 

a  "    "  ask,  grass. 

du  for   duin  ver'-dure;  also  for  deu  as  in 

grandeur. 

e  as  in  eve,  se-rene'. 
g  "    "  g-vent',  depend'. 
8  "    "  find,  m8t. 
e  "    "  ev'-er,  un'-der. 
e  "    "  as  in  re'-c£nt,  pru'-d^nce. 
I    "    "  Ice,  sight. 
I    "    "  111,  hab'-It. 
j  for  soft  g  as  in  gem;  also  for  gi  as  in 

religion;  and/ordg(e)  as  in  edge. 
N  (small  capital)  indicates  the  nasal  tone  (as 

in  French)  of  the  preceding  towel,  as 

in  ensemble  (ax-saN'-bl'). 


rj  (like  ng)  as  in  lin'-ger,  can'-ker. 

6  as  in  old,  he'-ro. 

6  "    "  6-bey',  t6-bac'-co. 

6   "    "  orb,  or'-der. 

0  "    "  odd,  for'-est, 

f   '      '  con-nect',  cdm-bine. 

01  "     '  oil,  nois'-y. 
60"    '  food,  moon. 

foot,  book. 


th 


'  out,  thpu. 


as  :in  then,  smooth. 
ta,  as  in  cul'-ture,  na'-ture. 
u  as  in  ust,  du'-ty. 
u  "    "  3p,  cup. 
u   "    "  u-nite',  mu-si'-cian. 
d   "    •'  urn,  con-cflr'. 
ii  for  French  u,  as  in  menu. 
u  as  in  cir'-ciis,  cau'-ciis. 
zh  for  a  as  in  pleasure,  usual;  also  for  si 

as  in  vision;  and  for  g  as  in  rouge, 

cortege. 


GLOSSARY 


ab'- ject  (ab'-jSkt) :  Low  in  spirit  or  hope; 
cast  down. 

ab-stract'-ed  (ab-strakt'-6d) :  Removed, 
drawn  apart. 

ac-cou'-tre  (d-koo'-ter) :  To  equip,  fit 
out,  dress. 

ac-qui-esce'  (ak-wl-§s') :  To  consent 
orally  or  silently;  to  agree. 

ad'-der-tongue:  The  dog-toothed  violet. 

a-dios'  (a-dyos'):  Adieu: — chiefly  used 
among  Spanish-speaking  peoples. 

Ag-a-mem'-non  (ag-d-mSm'-non) :  The 
leader  of  the  Greeks  in  the  Trojan  War. 

ag-gres'-sive  (d-grf s'-Iv) :  Disposed  to 
attack  or  assault  others. 

A-gues-seau'  (d-gS-so'):  A  noted  French 
judge  and  statesman  of  the  eighteenth 
century. 

a-kim'-bo  (d-klm'-bo):  With  the  hand 
on  the  hip  and  the  elbow  turned  out 
ward. 

al'-der  (ol'-der) :  A  family  of  certain 
trees  and  shrubs  that  thrive  in  wet 
places. 

Al-gon'-quin  (al-gdrj'-kln) :  A  group  of 
Indian  tribes  formerly  extending  over 
large  areas  of  the  United  States  and 
Canada;  now  mostly  found  in  the  prov 
ince  of  Quebec. 

al'-ien  (al'-y^n):  A  stranger;  a  foreigner; 
especially  one  living  in  a  country  of 
which  he  is  not  a  citizen. 

al'-mond  (a'-mtfnd;  al'-miind):  A  nut 
grown  in  Southern  Europe  and  in  Cali 
fornia;  much  used  in  confectionery  and 
in  cooking. 

am'-i-ca-ble  (am'-I-kd-b'l):  Friendly. 

an'-arch-y  (an'-dr-kl):  A  state  of  law 
lessness  due  to  the  lack  of  government 
or  its  inefficiency. 

an-i-ma -tion  (an-I-ma'-shun) :  Liveli 
ness  of  body  or  of  mind. 

an-ni'-hi-late  (d-nl'-hl-l&t) :  To  destroy 
utterly. 

an'-o-dyne  (an'-o-dln):  A  medicine 
which  lightens  pain;  anything  that 
soothes  wounded  feelings. 

An-tae'-us  (an-te'-iis):  A  Greek  mythi 
cal  giant,  unconquerable  \yhile  he 
touched  the  earth.  Hercules  lifted  him 
and  then  destroyed  him. 

aii-ti-sep'-tic  (an-tl-sep'-tftc) :  A  sub 
stance  used  to  destroy  germs  but  with 
little  or  no  harmful  effect  on  the  living 
body. 

ap-pro-pri-a'-tion  (<J-pr6-prf'-a-srmn) : 
Money  especially  set  aside  for  a  special 
purpose. 

Arc'-tic:  (ark'tflO:  There  have  been  sev 
eral  ships  of  this  name  lost  in  the  North ; 
possibly  this  was  the  one  lost  to  the 
west  of  Greenland  in  1886. 


a-ro'-ma  (d-ro'-md) :  An  agreeable  odor. 
a'-rum   (a'-rum):    A  family  of  plants  of 

which  one  of  the  most  familiar  is  Jack- 

in-the-pulpit. 
as-si-du'-i-ty  (as-I-du'-l-tl) :  Constantat- 

tention  or  application. 
au'-gu-ry  (o'-gu-rl) :    A  portent  or  omen. 
au-ro'-ra     (6-r6'-rd):    The    dawn.     The 

aurora     bo-re-a'-lis    (bo-re-a'-lls) :   The 

northern  lights. 
au- then' -tic       (6-then'-tfk) :     Genuine, 

authoritative. 

A' -ye  Ma'-ry   (a'-ve  ma'-ri):    A  saluta 
tion  used  with  a  prayer  to  the  Virgin  by 

Roman  Catholics. 


bail'-i-wick  (bal'-l-wlk) :  The  territory 
included  within  the  limits  of  a  con 
stable's  authority. 

banned  (band) :  Accursed  and  driven 
out  by  the  church. 

bar'-ber-ry  (bar'-ber-I) :  A  shrub  which 
has  prickly  branches  and  bears  oblong, 
red  berries. 

bas'-tard  (bas'-tdrd) :  Not  standard, 
abnormal. 

bat'-tle-dore  (bat-'l-dor):  Aninstrument 
resembling  a  tennis  racquet  used  in  the 
game  of  battledore  and  shuttlecock. 

bay'-ber-ry:    The  wax  myrtle. 

be-at'-i-tude  (be-at'-I-tud) :  Very  great 
happiness. 

bed  -larn  (bSd'-ldm) :  An  uproar;  a  scene 
of  wild  confusion. 

Bel'-schnick-le  (beT-schnick'l) :  Santa 
Claus. 

be-nef'-i-cenoe  (be-nef'-I-s<5ns) :  Active, 
helpful  kindness. 

Be-nic'-i-a  (be-nlsh'-I-d) :  A  small  city 
near  San  Francisco,  the  home  of  the 
prize-fighter  John  C.  Heenan,  who  thus 
gained  the  nickname,  the  "Benicia 
Boy." 

ben'-i-son  (b§n'-I-z'n) :    Blessing. 

black  art:  The  practice  of  magic  sup 
posedly  gained  through  intercourse 
with  the  dead  or  with  the  devil. 

black- mail:  A  payment  forced  by  in 
timidation,  especially  by  threats  of 
public  disgrace. 

bob:  The  weight  at  the  end  of  a 
pendulum. 

Bo-kha'-ra  (bo-ka'-rd)  and  Sam-ar-cand' 
(sam-ar-kant')  are  cities  of  Centra!  Asia 
famous  as  centres  of  the  Oriental  rug 
industry. 

bon-bon  (boN-boN'or  bon'-bon) :  French 
for  sweetmeat,  confection. 

boon  (boon) :   A  favor,  a  gift. 

boot:  A  place  for  baggage  at  either  end 
of  a  stage  coach. 


380 


GLOSSARY 


Boche  (bosh) :  The  name  applied  by  the 
French  to  the  German  soldiers. 

bor'-ough  (bur'-o):  In  Pennsylvania,  a 
town  or  district  governed  by  a  common 
council. 

bou'-le-yard  (boo'-le-vard) :  A  broad 
street  or  avenue,  especially  one  planted 
with  trees  and  with  grass-plots. 

brad-awl:  A  straight  awl  with  a  chisel- 
like  edge. 

buck' -skin:   A   yellowish-colored   horse. 

bur'-gess  (bur'-jgs) :  The  magistrate  of  a 
town  or  borough. 

bur-oak:  A  variety  of  oak  bearing  large 
leaves  and  large  acorns;  its  wood  is  con 
sidered  superior  in  strength  to  white 
oak. 

but  and  ben  ^bSn):  In  Scotland,  a  two- 
roomed  house  consisted  of  an  outer 
room — a  but  or  kitchen,  and  of  an 
inner  room  —  a  ben,  or  a  living-room 
and  bedroom. 

byre  (blr):   A  cow  house. 


cal'-a-mus  (kal'-d-nrus) :  The  sweet  flag. 
The  root  is  used  for  medicinal  purposes. 

cal'-i-ber  (kal'-I-ber) :  The  diameter  of  a 
bullet,  or  cannon  ball. 

Ca-lig'-u-la  (ka-llg'-u-ld) :  A  Roman 
emperor  who  lived  about  the  time  of 
Christ. 

cam  (kSm) :  A  rotating  or  sliding  piece 
or  projection,  as  on  a  wheel,  for  moving, 
or  receiving  motion  from,  a  roller,  pin, 
or  the  like,  moving  against  its  edge. 

car'-a-van  (kar'-d-van) :  A  company  of 
people  traveling  together,  especially 
through  deserts  and  through  lands 
infested  by  robbers. 

car'-di-nal  gros'-beak  (kar'dl-ndl  gros'- 
bek) :  An  American  songbird  commonly 
called  the  cardinal;  the  plumage  of  the 
male  is  a  bright  red. 

car'-line  (kar'-Un) :  An  old  woman ;  fre 
quently  used  as  a  term  of  contempt. 

cas-cade'  (kas-kad') :  A  waterfall  smaller 
than  a  cataract. 

cas'-u-al  (kazh'-u-dl;  kaz'-) :  Acciden 
tal,  haphazard. 

cat'-er-waul-ing:  To  make  a  harsh, 
screeching  noise  like  a  cat-cry. 

cav-al-cade'  (kav-dl-kad') :  A  company 
of  horsemen  on  the  march  or  in  pro 
cession. 

cen-ten'-ni-al  (se'n-te'n'-I-dl) :  Relating 
to  a  space  of  one  hundred  years  or  its 
completion. 

cer-e-mo'-ni-ous  (ser-e-mo'-nl-us) :  Per 
taining  to  outward  forms  and  rites,  or 
consisting  of  them ;  formal. 

chap-ar-ral'  (chap-d-ral') :  A  heavy 
thicket  of  stiff  shrubs;  especially,  in  the 
West,  dense  sage-brush. 

"chaps"  (chaps):  Shortened  form  for  the 
Spanish  cha-pa-ra'-jos  (cha-pa-ra'-hos) : 
Overalls  of  sheepskin  or  leather,  usually 
open  at  the  back,  worn  especially  by 
cowboys. 


Chel'-sea  (chgl'-se1):  A  northeast  sub 
urb  of  Boston,  now  a  part  of  that  city. 

cher'-ub  (cher'-ub):  One  of  a  group  of 
angels  below  the  seraphim. 

chil -blain  (chil'-blan):  A  swelling  of 
the  hands  or  feet  produced  by  exposure 
to  cold,  and  accompanied  by  itching 
pains. 

China  tree:  A  shade  tree  frequent  in 
the  Southern  states  of  this  country;  its 
berries  are  sometimes  used  for  making 
soap. 

chor'-is-ter  (kor'-ls-ter) :  A  singer  in  a 
choir. 

cin-e-mat'-o-graph  (sIn-4-mat'-6-graf) : 
A  machine  for  producing  moving  pic 
tures. 

clip-per:   A  trim,  fast-sailing  ship. 

co-in'-ci-dence  (kWn'-si-d^ns) :  The 
condition  of  happening  or  occurring  in 
the  same  time  or  place. 

Colt:  A  revolver  named  after  its  inventor, 
Samuel  Colt. 

com'-mis-sa-ry  (kom'-I-sa-rf) :  An 
officer  charged  with  supplying  food  for 
soldiers. 

Com'-mon-wealth:  The  republican 
government  existing  in  England  be 
tween  1649  and  1660. 

com'-pass  (kum'-pds) :  To  reach,  to 
obtain,  to  accomplish. 

con-coct'  (kon-kokt'):  To  make  up,  to 
invent. 

con-fec'-tion  (kon-fSk'-shj/n) :  Sweet 
meats;  a  preparation  of  sugar,  fruit, 
spice,  etc. 

con-jec'-ture  (kdn-jSk'-tyr):  A  guess, 
surmise,  suspicion. 

con-serv'-a-to-ry  (kon-sur'-vd-t6-rl) : 
A  greenhouse,  frequently  of  small  size, 
attached  to  a  dwelling. 

con-sign'  (kon-sin'):  To  deliver,  to 
intrust. 

con-stel-la'-tion  (kon-st£-la'-sh«n):  A 
group  of  fixed  stars,  usually  outlining 
some  imaginary  figure,  such  as  the 
Great  Dipper. 

con-ta'-gious  (kon-ta'-jiis):  Catching, 
spreading,  infectious. 

con-tin'-gen-cy  (kdn-tln'-j^n-sD:  A 
chance  event;  a  thing  or  condition  de 
pendent  upon  a  possible  event. 

con-viv'-i-al  (kon-vlv'-l-dl) :  Festive, 
gay.  It  usually  suggests  eating  and 
drinking. 

co'-pi-ous-ness  (ko'-p!Ms-nes) :  Abun 
dance,  fullness. 

copy:  Material  for  an  article  for  pub 
lication.  * 

cor'-po-rate  (kor'-po-rdt) :  United; 
grouped,  or  joined  into  one  body. 

cor-rob'-o-rate  (ko-rob'-6-rat) :  To  con 
firm,  to  establish,  to  make  more  certain. 

Cos'-sack  (kos'-dk):  A  warlike  pastoral 
people,  skillful  as  horsemen,  and  living 
chiefly  in  the  regions  north  of  the  Black 
Sea.  Many  of  their  number  were  for 
merly  used  for  police  and  patrol  duty. 

coun-ter- weight     (koun'-ter-wat) :     A 


GLOSSARY 


381 


weight  placed  at  the  end  of  the  beam  of 
a  scale,  or  in  the  opposite  scale. 

coy'-otc  (kl'-ot) :  A  small  wolf  common 
on  the  plains  in  the  West. 

era-die:  A  kind  of  scythe  for  cutting 
grain  and  laying  it  in  line. 

Cre-cy'  (kra-se')  or  Cres'-sy  (kreV-1) :  A 
town  in  northern  France  where  the 
English  gained  a  great  victory  in  1340. 

Creed'-more:  A  village  on  Long  Island, 
thirteen  miles  east  of  New  York  City, 
now  a  part  of  Greater  New  York.  Here 
is  located  the  rifle  range  of  the  National 
Rifle  Association,  which,  a  little  before 
this  article  was  written,  had  been  train 
ing  the  gunners  in  lying  prone  and 
firing. 

cre'-ole  (kre'-61) :  A  white  person  de- 
scendent  from  French  or  Spanish  set 
tlers  of  Louisiana. 

Ores' -cent  Beach  (kres'-fet):  A  pop 
ular  shore  resort,  a  few  miles  from 
Boston. 

crone  (kron) :   A  withered  old  woman. 

cte'-noid  (te'-noid) :  Resembling  a  comb; 
having  marginal  projections,  like  the 
teeth  of  a  comb. 

curt'-sey  (kurt'-sl):  A  bow  made  by 
slightly  dropping  the  body  and  bending 
the  knees. 

cus'-pi-dor  (kus'-pl-dor) :    A  spittoon. 

dank  (dank) :    Damp,  very  moist. 

de- cease'  (de-ses'):    Death. 

de-co'-rum  (de"-ko'-nim) :  Fitness  or 
propriety  of  manner  or  conduct;  dig 
nity. 

de-fault'  (-folt) :  In  default  of,  in  case 
of  failure  or  lack  of. 

def'-er-ence  (dSP-er-£ns):  Respect;  sub 
mission  of  one's  wishes  or  opinions  to 
those  of  another. 

de-fi'-cien-cy  (d£-flsh'-£n-sl) :  Defeat, 
failure. 

de-ject'-ed  (dS-jSk'-tSd) :  Downcast, 
low-spirited. 

del'-e-gate  (deT-e-ga't) :  One  sent  and 
empowered  to  act  for  another. 

de-mure'  (dfe-mur'):  Of  modest  or  sober 
look  or  appearance. 

de-pre'-ci-a-to-ry  (de-pre'-shl-d-to-rl) : 
Tending  to  lower  in  estimation  or  in 
price. 

der'-e-lict  (dgr'-g-llkt) :  A  vessel  aban 
doned  at  sea,  especially  in  a  storm. 

de-ri'-sion  (dS-rlzh'-iin) :  Scorn,  insult, 
ridicule. 

de-trac'-tor  (dfe-trak'-ter) :  A  defamer, 
a  slanderer. 

de'-vi-ous    (de'-vl-its) :    Winding,    wan- 

dex'-ter-ous  (dSks'-ter-us) :  Skillful,  apt, 
quick. 

dig'-ni-ta-ry  (dlg'-nl-ta-rf) :  One  of 
high  rank  or  holding  a  place  of  honor. 

dil'-a-to-ry  (dH'-d-to-rf) :  Delaying;  be 
hindhand;  inactive. 

di-lem'-ma  (dl-16m'-d;  dl-):  A  hard 
choice  or  position. 


di-shev'-el  (dI-sh6V-<a)  :  To  let  the  hair 

hang  in  disorder. 
dis'-"""-nant    (dls'-o-nc?nt)  :    Discordant, 

harsn,  grating,  out  of  tune. 
doc'-ile       (dos'-Il):     Easily       managed, 

gentle. 
Don  Quix-ote  (don  kwik'-sot  ;  Spanish, 

don  ke-ho'-ta)  :    The  hero  of  a  Spanish 

romance   (1G05-1G16)   written  by  Cer 

vantes    (ser-van'-tez)  . 
dor'-mi-to-ry    (dor'-ml-t6-rf)  :   A  build 

ing  (especially  a  school  or  college  build 

ing)  containing  many  bedrooms. 
Doyle  (doil),  Sir  Arthur  Conan:  A  pres 

ent-day  writer  of  stirring  fiction,  espe 

cially  of  detective  stories. 
dri'-vers:    The   large    wheels   by    which 

motion  is  given  to  a  train  of  wheels. 
dune  (dun)  :   A  ridge   or   hill  of  drifted 

sand. 
du-plic'-i-ty    (du-plls'-I-tJ)  :    Deception, 

double-dealing,  falsehood. 


Eb'-en    Hol'-den    (6b'<5n   hol'-d<*n):    A 

novel  (1900)  by  Irving  A.  Bacheller. 
"Ein  feste  Burg  ist  unser  Gott"   (In 

f6s'-te     boorg     1st     66n-ser    got):   "A 

mighty  fortress  is  our  God,"  the  first 

line  of  Martin  Luther's  great  hymn. 
elf  (61  f):    A  fairy;  a  sprite. 
e-man'-ci-pate   (e-man'-sl-pat)  :    To  set 

free. 

em'-er-ald  (Sm'-er-dld)  :  Of  a  rich  green 
„  color. 

E-mile'  Jar-din'  (a-mel'  zhdr-daN'). 
em-u-la'-tion  (Sm-u-la'-srmn)  ;  Rivalry; 

ambition  to  equal  or  excel. 
en-am'ored  (en-arn'-erd)  :  Charmed,  fas 

cinated;  deep  in  love. 
en-co'-mi-um      (Sn-ko'-ml-Mm)  :     High 

praise. 
en'-dive  (Sn'-dlv;  Sn'-dlv):    A  cultivated 

plant,  used  as  a  salad. 
e-nig'-ma  (e-nig'-md):    A  puzzle;  a  dark 

saying  or  riddle. 

en  route'  (ax  root')  :    On  the  way. 
en-to-mol'-o-gy    (Sn-to-mol'-o-jl):    The 

science  of  insect  life. 
ep'-i-thet      (ep'-I-thgt)  :   An      adjective 

indicating  some  characteristic  quality 

of  some  person  or  thing. 
e-pit'-o-mize      (6-pit-o-miz)  :    To  •  sum 

marize,  to  abridge. 
es-pi-o-nage   (eV-pi-6-naj  ;  8s-pi'):   The 

practice    of  spying    on   others   or   the 

employment  of  spies. 
es-sen  (6s'-sSn)  :    German  for  to  eat. 
E-trus'-can    (e-trus'-kdn)    gold:    Gold 

with  a  dull,  rich,  yellow  luster;  com 

monly    called    Roman    gold.     Etrusca 

was  a  district  of  Middle  Italy  in  ancient 

times. 
ev-a-nes'-cent  (8v-d-n§s'-i5nt)  :  Tending 

to  vanish  or  disappear. 
E-van-gel'-i-cal  (e-van-jfl'-l-kal)  :  Such 

Protestant  churches  as  profess  to  base 

their  principles  on  the  scriptures  alone. 
ex'-e-cra-ble  (6k'-s6-krd-b'l)  :  Wretched, 

detestable,  accursed. 


382 


GLOSSARY 


«x'-t-gen-cy  (Sk'-sl-j^n-sl):  Urgent  want 

or  need;  requirement. 
ez-ot'-ic    (fig-zot'-Ik) :    Brought  from    a 

foreign  land;  not  native. 
ex-ul-ta'-tion  (6k-sul-ta'-shun ;  gg-ziil-): 

Lively  joy;  great  gladness. 

fat  lightwood:  Wood  containing  much 
resin. 

Fau-bpurg'  (fo-boor'):  A  district  now 
within  the  city  but  formerly  outside  its 
walls;  here,  a  district  of  New  Orleans. 

I er'-rule  (ffir'-ool) :  A  ring  of  metal 
placed  round  a  cane  or  a  whip  to 
strengthen  it.  _ 

fes-toon'  (f8s-toon') :  To  drape  with 
curved  garlands. 

fia'-cre  (fya'-kr'):  A  French  cab;  a 
small  four-wheeled  carriage. 

flc-ti'-tious  (flk-tlsh'-us) :  Pretended, 
feigned. 

fies'-ta  (fySs'-ta)  [Spanish]:  A  religious 
festival;  a  saint's  day;  also,  any  holi 
day  or  festival. 

fil'-i-graned  (ftl'-I-grand) :  Covered  with 
ornamental  wire. 

fi-nesse'  (fl-neV):  Delicate  skill,  cun 
ning. 

fish  plates:  The  long,  narrow  iron  plates 
joining  the  rails. 

Fitz-Ger'-ald  (ftts-jeV-dild)  .Edward:  An 
English  poet  (1809-1883). 

fleur-de-lis'  (flur-de-le') :  The  iris;  the 
flower  chosen  as  the  royal  emblem  of 
France. 

Flo-quet'  (flo-ka'). 

fly  ty-ing:  Tying  to  a  hook  material 
resembling  a  fly. 

fore'-cas-tle  (f or'-kas-'l ;  fok"s'l):  The 
forward  part  of  the  steamboat. 

fore-to'-ken  (for-to'k'n):  Foretell. 

for'-mi-da-ble  (for'-ml-da-b'l) :  Fearful, 
threatening. 

Fort  Win-ne-ba'-go,  Kings-ton,  Fox 
River,  Por-tage,  and  Lake  Pack-wau'- 
kee  all  lie  in  the  district  about  sixty  to 
seventy-five  miles  northwest  of  Mil 
waukee. 

fos'-sils  (fos'-Ils):  The  remains  of  plants 
or  animals  belonging  to  past  ages, 
found  embedded  in  layers  of  rock. 

Fra  Di-a'-vp-lo  (fra  dS-a'-v6-lo) :  A 
famous  comic  opera,  first  produced  in 
Paris  about  1830. 

French  window:  A  window-  with  two 
sashes  meeting  in  the  middle,  opening 
like  doors,  and  generally  extending  to 
the  floor. 

fron'-tis-piece  (frun'-tls-pes;  fr6n'-): 
An  illustration  facing  the  title  page  of 
a  book. 

fur'-tlve  (fftr'-tlv)-   Sly,  secret. 

fu-sil-lade'  (fa-zl-lad') :  A  wholesale 
discharge  of  firearms. 

gam'-mon  (gam'-#n):  Nonsense;  bluff. 

gan'-net  (gan'-£t):   A  sea  fowl;   the  gan- 

net    of    the    North    Atlantic    coast    is 


colored  a  yellowish-white  and  black. 
Its  extended  wings  sometimes  measure 
six  feet;  and  it  is  a  bold  and  skillful 
flyer. 

ge'-ni-al  (je'-nl-dl);  jen'-ydl):  Kindly, 
cheerful. 

ge-ni-al'-i-ty  (je-nl-al'-I-tl) :  Joviality, 
kindliness. 

ge-p-log'-i-cal  (je-o-loj'-l-kdl):  Per 
taining  to  geology,  the  science  treating 
of  the  earth's  history  and  its  life,  espe 
cially  as  shown  in  the  rocks. 

gig  (gig) :    A  light,  one-horse  cart. 

gla'-cier  (gla'-sher) :  A  large  body  of  ice 
and  snow  formed  in  a  mountain  valley 
and  moving  slowlv  downward. 

glad'-i-a-tors  (glad'-l-a-ters) :  In  Ro 
man  days,  men  who  fought  with  weap 
ons  to  amuse  an  audience. 

gloam'-ing  (glom'-Ing) :  Dusk,  twilight. 

goldfinch:  In  America,  any  of  various 
small  finches,  of  which  the  male  in. 
summer  is  bright  yellow  with  black 
wings,  tail,  and  crown. 

grist  (grist):  Grain  that  has  been,  or  is 
to  be,  ground. 

gro-tesque'  (gr6-t6sk') :  Fantastic,  wildly 
formed. 

grue'-some  (groo'-sum) :  Horrible, 
ghastly. 

Grun-dy,  Mrs.:  A  character  in  a 
comedy  written  about  1800;  her  name 
has  become  a  proverb  for  people  whose 
opinions  as  to  what  is  proper  and  right 
are  narrow  and  conventional. 

gus'-to  (gus'-to):  Keen  liking  or  appre 
ciation. 


hap:   Chance,  happening. 

hard-port:  To  steer  sharply  to  the  left. 

har'-ass  (hfir'-ds):  To  bother,  to  dis 
tress. 

haw'-thorn  (ho'-thorn) :  Any  of  a  large 
family  of  shrubs  and  trees  with  shining 
leaves  and  small  red  fruit  commonly 
called  haws. 

Hes-per'-i-des  (heVpeV-I-dez) :  The 
daughters  of  Hesper,  the  evening  star; 
they  guarded  the  golden  apples  of  the 
sunset. 

"Hier  liegt  ..."  (Her  legt  hok-vol-gg- 

bo-r6n  H6rr gS-fres'-s<5n) : 

Here  lies  the  nobly  born  Mr. 

eaten  by  a  beast. 

hir'-ple  (hur'-p'l) :  To  drag  one's  foot 
lamely. 

hob:  A  projection  on  the  back  or  side 
of  a  fireplace  where  the  kettle  may  be 
huntr. 

hop '-per:  A  chute  for  feeding  grain  to 
the  mill-stones. 

hu-man'-i-ties  (.hu-man'-I-ttz) :  Ancient 
classics,  Latin  and  Greek. 

hur'-tle  (hur'-t'l):    To  clash;  to  resound. 

hy-grom'-e-ter  (hI-grpm'-£-ter) :  An  in 
strument  for  measuring  the  degree  of 
moisture  in  the  atmosphere. 


GLOSSARY 


383 


ich-thy-ol'-o-gy  (ik-thI-61'-6-jS) :  That 
branch  of  natural  science  which  treats 
of  fishes. 

id'-i-om  (Id'-l-iim):  That  variety  of  a 
language  peculiar  to  a  certain  district 
or  class  of  people;  dialect. 

im-mac'-u-late  (I-mak'-u-lat) :  Spotless. 

im'-mi-nent  (Im'-I-nfat):  Ready  to 
occur,  threatening. 

im-mure'    (i-mur'):   Wall  in,  imprison. 

im-pal'-pa-ble  (Im-pal'-pd-b'l) :  Inca 
pable  of  being  touched  or  felt. 

im-pla'-ca-ble  (Im-plfi'-ka-b'l) :  In 
capable  of  being  appeased  or  satis 
fied;  relentless,  unyielding. 

im-pli-ca'-tion  (Im-pll-ka'-shun) :  The 
act  of  suggesting  without  expressing  or 
stating  in  plain  terms;  that  which  is 
thus  suggested. 

im-plic'-it-ly  (Im-plIs'-It-H) :  Without 
question  or  reserve. 

im'-po-ten-cy  (Im'-po-t£n-si) :  Lack  of 
power  or  strength;  feebleness. 

in-can-ta'-tion  (In'-kan-ta'-shwn) :  A 
charm  or  spell,  spoken  or  sung,  used  in 
magic  or  witchcraft. 

in-cen'-di-a-ry  (In-sen'-dJ-a-rf) :  One 
who  maliciously  sets  fire  to  a  building 
or  other  property;  inflammatory,  ex 
citing  passion. 

in-co-her'-ent      (In-ko-her'-^nt) :     Con- 

.  sisting  of  parts  that  do  not  stick 
or  cling  together'  unconnected,  dis 
jointed. 

in-con-gru'-i-ty  (In-kon-groo'-I-tl) : 

Want  of  harmony  or  agreement  in 
parts  or  elements;  inconsistency,  dis 
agreement. 

in-crim'-i-nat-ing  (Kn-krim'-I-nat-lng) : 
Involving  in  a  crime  or  fault. 

in'-cu-ba-tor  Cfn'-ku-ba-ter):  An  appa 
ratus  for  hatching  birds  by  artificial 
heat. 

in'-cu-bus  (In-ku-bus) :  A  nightmare. 
A  person  or  thing  that  oppresses  like  a 
nightmare. 

in'-di-ca-tor  (In'-dl-ka-ter) :  A  device  for 
registering  or  indicating  something, 
such  as  the  pressure  of  steam,  or  of 
water. 

in-dig'-ni-ty  (In-dlg'-nl-tl) :  Injury 
plus  insult;  dishonor,  disgrace,  un 
worthy  treatment. 

in-el'-fa-ble  (In-eT-d-b'l) :  Unutterable, 
unspeakable. 

in-ev'-i-ta-ble  (In-Sv'-l-td-b'l) :  Unavoid 
able. 

in-fu'-sion  (In-fQ'-zhim) :   Inpouring. 

in- junc'-tion  (In-jurjk'-shun) :  The  act 
of  enjoining  or  directing  with  authority; 
commanding,  prohibiting. 

in-op-por- tune'  (ln-6p-6r-tunO :  Not 
suited  to  the  time  or  place. 

in-scru'-ta-ble  (in-skroo'-td-b'l) :  In 
comprehensible,  incapable  of  being 
understood. 

in'-stant  (In'-stant):  The  present  month. 

in'-sti-gate  (In'-stl-gat) :  To  urge  on, 
to  stir  up,  to  incite. 


in-ter-loc'-u-tor  (In-ter-lok'-u-ter) :  One 
taking  part  in  a  dialogue ;  a  questioner. 

in-va'-ri-a-ble  (Jn-va'-rf-d-b'l):  Not 
subject  to  change;  uniform,  constant. 

in-yol'-un-ta-ri-ly  (In-vol  -im-ta-rf-U) : 
Not  done  under  the  control  or  exercise 
of  the  will. 

i'-ris  (I'-rls) :  The  plant  commonly 
called  the  flag,  especially  the  blue  flag. 

ir-rel'-e-vant  (I-reT-e-vdnt) :  Not  ap 
plicable  to  or  bearing  upon  the  case. 

ir'-ri-gate  (Ir'-I-gat) :  To  water  land 
by  means  of  channels  (especially  arti 
ficial)  passing  through  it. 

i'-so-late  (i'-s6-lat;Is'-6):  Tosetorplace 
apart;  to  detach. 

jag'-uar  (jag'-war):  A  large,  black- 
spotted  animal  of  the  cat  family. 

jar'-gon  (jiir'-gon):  Unintelligible  or 
confused  speech.  _ 

Jou  Jou  (zhoo  zhoo) :  French  for  toy  or 
plaything. 

jour'-nal:  A  part  of  a  rotating  or  twist 
ing  shaft  that  turns  in  a  bearing. 

ju-di'-cial-ly  (joo-dish'-dl-B) :  In  a  judg 
ing  or  deciding  manner. 

Ju-lie'  (zhu-le'). 

jun'-co  (jurj'-ko:  The  North  American 
snow  bird. 

ju'-ni-per  (joo'-ni-per) :  Any  of  the 
various  evergreen  shrubs  or  small  trees 
of  the  pine  family. 

Ka-tah'-din  (kd-ta'-din) :  A  mountain 
in  central  Maine. 

Kelms'-cott  Chau'-cer  (kelms'-kot  cho'- 
ser) :  A  beautiful  edition  of  the  works  of 
the  English  poet  Chaucer  (1340-1400) 
printed  at  the  Kehnscott  Press,  near 
London,  late  in  the  nineteenth  cen 
tury  by  the  poet-workman  William 
Morris. 

kill-deer:  An  American  bird,  sometimes 
called  the  ring  plover  (pluv'-er) ;  nine 
to  ten  inches  long,  marked  with  black, 
white,  and  orange-brown. 

kil'-o-me-tre  (kll'-o-me-ter) :  One 
thousand  meters;  about  f  of  a  mile. 

lar'-der  (lar'-der):  A  place  where  food, 
especially  meat,  is  kept. 

laud'-a-ble      (lod'-d-b'l) :    Praiseworthy- 

lea(le):    Meadow. 

league  (leg) :  A  distance  of  about  three 
miles. 

Le-coq'  Ray-mond'  (le-kok'  ra-moN'). 

leer  (ler) :    A  sly  look  or  cast  of  the  eye. 

Les  Mi-se-rables  (la  me-za-rabl') :  The 
Unfortunates:  a  great  novel  by  the 
French  author  Victor  Hugo,  1862. 

le-thar'-gic  (16-thar'-jlk) :  Sleepy,  slug 
gish,  dull. 

lev-ee  (lgv'-£;  16v-e'):  An  embankment 
to  prevent  an  overflow;  a  landing 
place. 

li-mou-sine'  (le-moo-zen') :  An  auto 
mobile  whose  body  has  a  permanent 
top. 


384 


GLOSSARY 


lin'-gual  (Hrj'-gwdl):  In  speech,  a  sound 
made  with  the  aid  of  the  tongue. 

lith'-o-graph  (llth'-o-graf ) :  A  print 
made  from  a  design  on  stone  (or  other 
similar  substance)  covered  with  a  greasy 
material. 

live-oak:  An  evergreen  oak  growing  in 
the  South. 

lon'-go  in-ter'-val-lo  (16rj'-go  In-ter- 
yal'-6)  [Latin]:  By  or  with  a  long 
interval. 

loon  (loon) :  A  water-haunting,  fish- 
eating  bird,  known  for  its  loud  cry. 

lum-ba'-go  (lum-ba'-go) :  Rheumatic 
pains  in  the  lower  part  of  the  back. 

ly-ce'-um  (li-se'-zim):  A  literary  society. 


M. :   See  monsieur. 

mach-i-na'-tion    (mak-I-na'-shwn) :    An 

artful  scheme  or  plot, 
ma-dame' (ma-dam'):    My  lady. 
ma-de-moi-selle'    (mad-mwa-zeT) :     A 

French  form  of  address  to  a  girl  or  an 

unmarried  lady. 
main:    The  main  or  high  sea. 
mall  (mol):    A  publicjvalk. 
Man-elm'     (man-choo'):   A    Mongolian 

tribe  that  gained  control  of  the  Chinese 

government  in  1643. 
man'-i-cure    (man'-I-kur) :    To   care  for 

the  hands  and  finger  nails. 
ma- nip' -u- late  (md-nlp'-u-lat) :  To  han 
dle  skillfully;  to  manage  fraudulently. 
manse    (mans):    The    minister's   house; 

the  parsonage. 
mar'-i-tal     (marM-tdl) :    Pertaining     to 

marriage,  or  to  a  husband. 
Mariie    (marn):    A    river   in   France,   in 

whose  valley  the  Germans  were  driven 

back    in    their    advance    on    Paris    in 

August,  1914,  and  again  in  1918. 
Mar-ya'-she  (Mar-ya'-she). 
Maud   S. :    At    one    time    she  held  the 

world's  trotting  record,  2:08J. 
mean:   Average. 

mes'-mer-ism    (meV-mer-Izm) :  Hypno 
tism;  including     a     state     resembling 

sleep. 
mes-quite'      (mSs-kef;     meV-ket):      A 

shrub    or    tree    of    the    southwestern 

United    States,    with   fragrant   flowers 

and  pods  rich  in  sugar. 
met-a-mor'-pho-sis  (met-d-mor'-f6-sfe) : 

A  change  of  form  or  structure: 
me'-tre  (me'-ter) :  A  measure  of  length, 

equal  to  39.37  in. 

mick'-le  (mlk'-'l):  Large,  great,  much. 
mi'-gra-to-ry     (ml'-grd-t6-rl) :   Roving; 

passing    at   regular  seasons   from    one 

region  to  another. 
min'-i-a-ture  (rnm'-I-d-^ur) :    On  a  small 

scale;  in  brief  form. 
min'-ster     (mln'-ster):     A     church      of 

considerable  size  and  importance. 
minx  (mlgks) :    A  pert  or  saucy  girl. 
mis-cel-la'-ne-ous         (mIs-2-la'-ne'-#s) : 

Mixed;  consisting  of  different  kinds  of 

elements. 


mon  dieu'  (moN  dyu') :  A  French  excla 
mation  =  heavens. 

mon'-grel  (mun'-grgl):  A  dog  of  no  dis 
tinct  breed. 

Mon-i-teur'  (mo-nS-ter') :  Formerly  the 
official  newspaper  of  the  French  Gov 
ernment. 

mon  pere'  (m6N  par') :  French  for  my 
father. 

mon-sieur'  (me-syu'):  The  French  title 
equivalent  for  Mr. 

Mont-martre'  (moN  mar'-t'r):  Literally 
"the  mount  of  Mars";  in  the  north  of 
Paris. 

mo-raine'  (mo-ran'):  The  deposits  of 
earth  or  stone  left  by  a  glacier. 

mort-ga-gee'  (mor-ga-je') :  One  to 
whom  property  is  mortgaged. 

muT-ber-ry  (mul'-ber-I) :  Any  of  sev 
eral  trees  bearing  an  edible,  berrylike 
fruit,  usually  dark  purple. 

murre  (mfir):  A  species  of  short, 
stout,  sea-loving  birds. 

music  cart:  A  toy  cart  containing  a 
music  box. 

musk'-rat:  A  thickset,  dark  brownish 
animal,  nearly  the  size  of  a  small  rabbit. 

non-com-mit'-tal:  Indicating  neither 
approval  nor  disapproval. 

non'-de-script  (n6n'-d£-skrfpt) :  Of  no 
particular  kind  or  class. 

no-vi'-ti-ate  (n6-vlsh'-l-at) :  An  appren 
tice,  a  novice;  the  state  of  being  an 
apprentice. 

ob'-du-rate  (ob'-du-rat) :  Stubborn,  hard, 
hard-hearted. 

ob-ses'-sipn  (6b-s6sh'-un) :  A  mania,  a 
dominating,  fixed  idea. 

ob'-vi-ous  (6b'-vl-us):  Plain,  evident! 

oc-cult'  (6-kulf)  Hidden,  secret,  myste 
rious. 

oc-ta'-vo  (ok-ta'-vo;  6k-ta'-)  A  book 
made  of  sheets  each  folded  into  eight 
leaves. 

o'-di-ous    (o'-dl-its):    Repulsive,  hateful. 

off  side:  The  right  side,  as  applied  to  a 
team  of  oxen  or  horses. 

Old  English:  A  style  of  type.  tCbts!  sen 
tence  is  (Dlfc  dislisl). 

om'-i-nous  (om'-I-ntfs) :  Foreboding  or 
foreshadowing  evil. 

op'-ti-mism  (Sp'-tl-mlz'm):  The  tend 
ency  to  take  the  best  or  most  hopeful 
view  of  things. 

o-rac'-u-lar  (6-rak'-u-ldr) :  Coming  from 
the  oracle  or  priest  by  whom  a  god 
reveals  things  hidden;  authoritative. 

or'-chard  o'-ri-ole  (6'-rI-6l):  A  yellow- 
and-black  bird  which  hangs  its  nest  on 
the  boughs  of  trees. 

or'-de-al  (or'-de'-alj-del):   A  trying  expc- 

.  rience;  a  trial. 

or'-der-ly:  A  sergeant,  corporal,  or 
private  soldier  attending  upon  a  supe 
rior  officer  to  carry  messages  or  orders. 

O-ri-no'-co  (6-rI-n6'-k6):  A  river  in 
Venezuela. 


GLOSSARY 


385 


out'-lan-der:    Foreigner. 
o'-ver-tures      (o'-ver-turz ) :      Proposals, 
advances. 


pale:   Limits,  bounds. 

pal'-pa-ble  (pal'-pd-b'l) :  Capable  of 
being  touched;  readily  seen. 

pan-de-mo'-ni-um  (pan-dfe-mo'-ni-um) : 
The  abode  of  demons;  a  wild  uproar. 

pan-o-ra'-ma  (pan-6-ra'-md) :  A  con 
tinuous  scene  that  passes  before  one. 

pan'-to-mime  (pan'-to-mlm):  Sig 
nificant  gesture  without  speech;  dumb 
show. 

par'-al-lel  (par'-d-181) :  Having  the 
same  course  or  tendency;  alike  in 
essential  parts. 

par'-tridge  (par'-trfj) :  A  name  applied 
to  many  American  game  birds,  includ 
ing  the  ruffled  grouse  and  the  quail. 

pa'tent  (pa'-t^nt) :    Evident,  manifest. 

pa-thet'-ic  (pd-thilt'-Ik) :  Affecting; 
rousing  grief  or  pity. 

pe-des'-tri-an  (pe'-de's'-trf-dn) :  Going 
on  foot;  a  foot  traveler. 

pen'-sive  (pfin'-stv):  Musing,  sadly 
thoughtful. 

per-cep'-ti-ble  (per-s6p'-tl-b'l) :  Capa 
ble  of  being  grasped  by  the  senses  or 
the  mind;  observable. 

Pere  An-toine'  (par  an-twax') :  Father 
Anthony. 

per-pen-dic'-u-lar  (pur-pto-dlk'-u-ldr) : 
Directly  upright. 

per'-pe-trate  (pfar'-pg-trat) :  To  com 
mit  or  perform  some  crime  or  evil  deed. 

per-spec'-tive  (per-sp&k'-tlv) :  The  ap 
pearance  of  an  object  to  the  eye  as 
affected  by  distance. 

Phar'-i-sa-ism  (far'-l-sa-iz'm) :  From 
Phar-i-see  (far'-I-se),  the  name  of  a  sect 
of  ancient  Jews:  regard  for  the  forms 
rather  than  the  spirit  of  religion;  a 
holier-than-thou  attitude. 

phe-nom'-e-non  (f^-nom'-^-no'n) :  That 
which  impresses  one  as  strange,  or  un 
usual.  Any  observable  fact  or  event. 

phi-lan'-thro-pist  (fl-lan'-thro-plst) : 
One  engaged  in  efforts  to  promote  the 
welfare  of  one's  fellow  men. 

phil-o-soph'.ic  (fil-6-sof '-Ik) :  Wise; 
calm. 

pic-a-roon'  (plk-d-roon') :  A  pirate  ship. 

pick'-et  (plk'-et) :  A  small  body  of  troops, 
or  a  single  soldier,  guarding  an  army 
from  surprise. 

pin  -ion  (pln'-yiin);  Wing. 

pin'-na-cle  (pln'-d-k'l) :  A  lofty  peak. 
The  highest  point. 

piv'-ot-al  (ply'-tit-dl) :  Being  that  on 
which  anything  turns  or  depends;  cen 
tral,  vital. 

Place  d'Er-lon'  (plas  d'ar-loN'):  A 
square  in  Rheims. 

Place  de  1'Ho-tel  de  Ville'  (plas  de  I'o-teT 
de  vel'):  The  square  or  plaza  in  front 
of  the  city  hall. 


plas'-tic  (plas'-tlk):  Capable  of  being 
moulded  or  shaped,  as  clay;  impres 
sionable. 

pleu-ro-nec'-ti-dse  (ploo-r6-n6k'-tl-de) : 
A  genus  or  family  including  nearly  all 
the  flat  fishes. 

pli'-ant  (pll'-dfnt) :    Bending,  yielding. 

Plym'-outh  Rock  (pUm'-tfth) :  A  breed 
of  chickens  with  gray  plumage  barred 
with  blackish  stripes. 

Pom-pe'-ian  (pom-pe'-ydn)  red:  A 
light,  yellowish  red,  similar  to  that 
found  on  the  walls  of  many  houses  in 
the  buried  city  of  Pompeii  (pom-pa'-ye). 

pon'-iard   (pon'-ydrd) :    A  dagger. 

pony  express:  A  system  of  carrying  the 
mail  by  using  relays  of  ponies. 

porte-mon-naie'  (port-mo-nS',  or  port'- 
rnun-I) :  A  purse  or  pocketbook. 

post-chaise'  (post-shaz') :  A  carriage  let 
for  hire  for  conveying  travelers  from 
one  stiuioh  to  another. 

post-hu-mous  (pos'-tu-mus;  post'- 
hu-mus):  After  death;  here,  after  the 
death  of  the  bear. 

Prai-rie  du  Chien'  'pra-rl  doo  shen';  Fr. 
=  dog  prairie) :  A  city  in  southwestern 
Wisconsin. 

pre'-ani-ble  (pre'-am-b'l) :  An  intro 
ductory  portion  or  statement  in  a 
formal  document._ 

pre-clude'  (prg-klood') :  To  put  a  bar 
before;  close,  stop. 

pred'-a-to-ry  (prSd'-ci-to-riO :  Plunder 
ing,  thieving. 

pred'-e-ces-sor  (pre'd'-e'-ses-er) :  One 
who  has  held  a  place  or  office  before 
the  present  holder. 

pre-des-ti-na'-tion  (pre-des-ti-na'- 
shun):  The  belief  that  God  has  fore 
ordained  men  either  to  eternal  happi 
ness  or  to  eternal  punishment. 

Pre'-fect  of  Police  (pre'-fekt) :  Chief  of 
police. 

preg'-nant  (prgg'-ndnt) :  Fruitful,  fer 
tile. 

pre-lim'-i-na-ry  (prS-lim'-I-na-rl) :  Pre 
paratory,  introductory. 

prem'-ise  (prfim'-Is) :  A  previous  state 
ment  from  which  another  is  inferred  or 
follows  as  a  conclusion. 

pre-rog'-a-tive  (prt-rog'-d-tlv) :  The 
peculiar  right  or  privilege  of  any  person 
or  body  of  persons. 

pre-ter-nat'-u-ral  (pre-ter-nat'u-ral) : 
Out  of  the  ordinary  course  of  nature; 
abnormal. 

pri-me'-val  (pri-me'-vdl) :  Pertaining  to 
the  first  or  to  very  distant  ages; 
primitive. 

prim'-i-tive  (prlm'-I-tlv) :  Belonging  to 
early  times;  old-fashioned;  simple. 

Prisoner  of  Zen'-da  (zen'-ddi :  An  excit 
ing  story  written  in  the  late  nineteenth 
century  by  Anthony  Hope. 

prom-e-nade'  (proin-£-nad') :  A  walk, 
especially  in  a  public  place,  for  pleas 
ure,  display,  or  exercise;  a  place  for 
walking. 


pro-pen'-si-ty  (pr6-p6n'-sl-tl) :  Natural 
inclination;  bent. 

pug-na'-cious  (pug-na'-shiis) :  Disposed 
to  fight;  quarrelsome. 

Punch  and  Judy:  The  dolls  or  small 
figures  representing  an  old  man  and  his 
wife  who  quarrel  ridiculously. 

pun'-gent  (pun'-jfat):  Biting,  sharp, 
tart. 

pu'-ni-tive  (pu'-nl-tlv) :  Involving  or  in 
flicting  punishment. 

py-rom'-e-ter  (pT-rom'-e'-ter) :  An  in 
strument  for  measuring  degrees  of  heat 
above  that  indicated  by  the  mercurial 
thermometer. 

quat'-rain     (k  wot '-ran):   A    stanza    of 

four  lines. 
quay  (ke) :   A  landing-place  built  at  the 

side  of  navigable  water. 
Quen'-tin   Dur'-ward  (qu9n'-tln   dur'- 

werd) :  The  hero  after  whom  is  named 

one  of  Sir  Walter  Scott's  best  novels. 

Isabella  is  the  heroine  of  the  book. 
quick:   Living. 
quick-sand:   A  deep  bed  of  loose,  watery 

sand  which  readily  swallows  a  heavy 

object. 
quiz'-zi-cal-ly      (kwlz'-l-kd-ll) :       In     a 

bantering,  questioning  manner. 

ra'-pi-er  (ra'-pl-er):  A  straight,  sharp- 
pointed  sword,  chiefly  for  thrusting. 

ra'-tion  (ra'-shiin;  rash'-wn):  A  fixed 
allowance  of  provisions;  especially  the 
allowance  assigned  to  a  soldier  or  sailor. 

rav'-en-ous-ly     (rav'-'n-us-ll):  Greedily. 

reach  (rech) :  That  part  of  a  river  lying 
between  two  bends;  as  much  as  can  be 
seen  at  a  single  view. 

ream  (rem):  A  quantity  of  paper,  usu 
ally  480-500  sheets. 

rec-on-noi'-ter  (rek-o-noi'-ter) :  To 
make  an  examination  or  inspection, 
looking  for  an  enemy. 

re-doubt'  ( readout'):  An  outlying,  tem 
porary  fortification,  little  protected  on 
the  sides. 

red  up:  Set  in  order  [An  old-fash 
ioned,  uncultivated  phrase.] 

re-Rime'  (ra-zhem'):  A  system  or  mode 
of  management. 

rel'-e-van-cy  (rgl'-e'-ydn-sl) :  The  qual 
ity  of  having  a  bearing  on  or  a  relation 
to  the  matter  in  hand. 

rep:  A  ribbed  fabric  of  wool,  silk,  or 
cotton. 

re-source'  (re'-sors'):  A  means  of  sup 
plying  some  want;  funds;  contri 
vances. 

res'-pite   (r6s'-plt) :   A  pause,  stop. 

rock  maple:    The  sugar  maple. 

Rocky  Mountain  sheep:  "They  bound 
like  goats  from  crag  to  crag,  often 
trooping  along  the  lofty  shelves  of  the 
mountains,  and  under  the  guidance  of 
some  venerable  patriarch,  with  horns 
twisted  lower  than  his  muzzle,  and 


sometimes  peering  over  the  edge  of  a 

precipice,    so    high    that   they    appear 

scarcely   bigger  than  crows."     IRVING, 

Captain  BonneviUe. 
rook'-er-y    (rook'-er-I) :    A  place  where 

great  numbers  of  rooks  or  other  birds 

come  to  nest. 
rue    Mont-lau-rent    (rii    mox-lo-roN') : 

A  street  in  Rheims. 
ruth'-less-ly:   Cruelly,  pitilessly. 


Sa'-bine     (sa'-bln)     men  and  women: 

According  to  legend  these  members  of 
an  early  Latin  tribe  watched  Romulus 
(r6m'-u-lus) ,  the  founder  of  Rome,  car 
ried  away  by  an  eagle. 

sac'-cha-rine  (sak'-d-rfn) :  Exceedingly- 
sweet  or  sugary. 

sac'-ra-ment  (s&k'-rd-mlnt) :  A  solemn 
religious  ceremony. 

sa-ga'-cious  (sd-ga'-shtfs) :  Keen  of 
judgment;  wise,  shrewd. 

sa-lon'   (sa-loN^):    A  parlor. 

sa-loon'   (sd-loon') :   The  main  cabin. 

san'-guine  (san'-gwln):  Bloody;  ardent, 
confident. 

sar-coph'-a-gi:  plural  of  sar-coph'-a-gus 
(sar-kof'-d-gjJs) :  A  stone  coffin. 

sar-don'-ic  (sar-d&n'-Ik) :  Bitter,  scorn 
ful. 

Sar-dou  (sar-doo'):  A  very  popular 
French  playwright  (1831-1908). 

sas'-sa-fras  (s&s'-d-f ras) :  A  small  tree 
with  yellow  wood  and  yellow  flowers. 
The  bark  of  the  root  was  once  much 
used  for  making  tea. 

sauve-qui-peut'  (sov-ke-pfl') :  Save 
himself  who  can. 

Schel'-ling  (sheT-ing):  A  German  phil 
osopher  (177.5-1854). 

schla'-ger     (schlii'-ger) :   A  broad  sword. 

scru'-pu-lous  (skroo'-pu-ljis) :  Careful, 
especially  in  following  the  dictates  of 
conscience;  cautious  or  very  exact  in 
acting. 

scru'-ti-nize  (skroo'-tl-niz) :  To  exam 
ine  carefully. 

scud  (skud) :  Wind-driven  clouds  of 
spray. 

section  line:  The  country  had  been 
surveyed  into  sections,  each  a  mile 
square. 

sedge  (sfij):  A  name  for  various  coarse, 
grassy  plants  growing  densely  in  wet 
places. 

se-duc'-tive  (sfe-duk'-tlv) :  Tempting, 
alluring. 

ser'-a-phim  (s£r'-«-ffm) :  An  order  of 
angels.  See  under  cherub. 

sere   (ser) :   Withered,  dried-up. 

set'-tle:  A  low  seat,  usually  with  a  high 
back. 

shrouds:  The  ropes  extending  from  the 
tops  of  the  masts  to  the  sides  of  the 
ship. 

shut'-tle-cock:  A  piece  of  some  light 
material  such  as  cork,  in  one  end  of 
which  are  stuck  feathers.  In  the  game 


GLOSSARY 


387 


of  shuttlecock  this  is  struck  by  a  bat 
tledore,    an   instrument    resembling    a 

small  tennis  racket. 

sil-hou-ette'  (sfl-oo-e't') :  An  outline  fig 
ure,  usually  drawn  or  printed  in  solid 

black. 
si'-lo  (si'-lo) :   A  tank  or  pit  for  storing 

green  crops  to  be  used  as  fodder. 
sin'-is-ter   (sln'-Is-ter) :   Evil;  indicating 

lurking  harm. 
skip'-per:    The  captain  or  master  of  a 

ship,   especially   of   a  fishing   or  small 

trading  vessel. 

slack:   A  loose  part  of  a  rope  or  a  sail. 
slav'-er    (slav'-er):   To   allow   spittle   to 

run  from  the  mouth. 
slick'-er:  A  waterproof  overcoat. 
slith'-er  (sllth'-er):    To  slide;  to  glide. 
sloop:    A  vessel  carrying  one  mast  and 

three  sails. 

snath  (snath) :  The  shaft  of  a  pendulum, 
so'-cial-ist  (sp'-shtfUst) :  One  who  seeks 

reform  on  living  conditions  by  means 

of  the  ballot. 
Sol'-o-mon  (sol'-6-m#n) :    Son  of  David, 

and  king  of  Israel ;  noted  for  his  wisdom, 
so-no'-rous    (so-no'-nis) :    Loud,   or  full 

of  sound. 

so r'- did   (sor'-dld):    Mean  or_low;  dirty. 
sou-tane'     (sob-tan'     or     soo-tan'):     A 

close-fitting     garment      with    straight 

sleeves    and    skirts    reaching    to    the 

ankles;  buttoned  in  front. 
sov'-er-eign  (sov'-er-In) :    A  British  gold 

coin,  worth  $4.86. 
spon-ta'-ne-ous      (spon-ta'-nfi-tfs) •:     Of 

one's    own    natural    impulse;    without 

being  especially  planted  or  cared  for. 
stal'-wart     (stol'-wert;    stol'-):    Strong, 

brave. 
ster-e-op'-ti-con  (ste'r-e'-op'-ti-kon) :    A 

lantern  for  projecting  pictures  upon  a 

screen;  a  magic  lantern. 
ster'-e-o-typed      (stfeV-e'-o-tlpt) :    Mate 
rial  set  up  in  solid  plates  of  type  metal, 

ready    for   printing;    material    put    in 

permanent  form,  and  often  used  with 
out  change. 
stern-sheets:   The  sails  near  the  rear  of 

a  boat. 
ster'-i-lize  (ster'-l-llz) :   To  make  free  of 

germs,  especially  germs  dangerous  to 

health. 
strand  (strand) :    A  shore,  'especially    of 

the  ocean. 
stra-te'-gic  (stra-te'-jlk) :    Marked  by  a 

trick  in  deceiving  the  enemy. 
sub'-tle      (sut'-'l):     Discerning,     clever, 

ingenious. 

suc'-cu-lent  (suk'-u-lfet) :    Juicy. 
su'-et    (su'-fit):   Certain  pieces   of  solid 

fat  in  beef  and  mutton. 
su'-mac  (su'-mak;  shoo'-mak) :   A  shrub 

or  tree  of  pithy  stem  and  coarse  leaves. 
su  -  per-  an'  -  nu  -at-  ed     (su-per-an'-u-at- 

8d):    Old,  infirm;  retired  and  pensioned 

because  of  old  age. 
su-per-ra'-tion-al    (su-per-rash'-tfn-dl) : 

That   which   is   beyond   the   scope    of 

reason. 


su-per-scrip'-tion  (su-per-skrfp'-shtfn) : 
That  which  is  written  upon  or  above 
something. 

sur-rep-ti'-tious-ly  (sur-gp-tlsh'-tis-ll) : 
Stealthily,  secretly. 

sur-tout'  (sitr-toot') :  A  long,  close-fit 
ting  overcoat. 

swad'-dling  bands  (swod'-Ung) :  A  cloth 
wrapped  around  a  newborn  child. 

swathe  (swatfe):  To  wrap  (a  band) 
around  something. 

syn'-a-gogue  (sin'-d-gog) :  A  Jewish 
church. 

tac'-it  (tas'-It):  Unspoken;  not  openly 
stated,  but  implied. 

tan'-ta-lize  (tan'-td-llz) :  To  torment 
by  keeping  something  just  beyond  one's 
grasp. 

te'-di-um  (te'-dl-iim) :  Tediousness, 
wearisomeness. 

teem   (tern):   To  abound,  to  be  fruitful. 

tem'-po-rize  (tem'-po-riz) :  To  delay  so 
as  to  gain  time ;  to  fit  one's  actions  to  the 
time  or  occasion. 

ten'-et  (t6n'-6t):  A  doctrine  or  belief 
held  as  true. 

tex'-as  (t6k'-sds):  A  structure  on  the 
top  deck  of  a  river  steamer  on  which 
are  the  officers'  cabins  and  the  pilot 
house. 

Thac'-ker-ay  (thak'-er-i) ,  William 
Makepeace:  English  novelist  (1811- 
1863). 

thatch  (thach) :  A  covering  or  roofing 
material,  especially  straw.  Here  indi 
cating  heavy,  bushy  eyebrows. 

Thil-lois'  (tel-wa'). 

thrid  (thrld) :    Thread. 

throt'-tle  (throt'-'l) :  A  valve  for  regulat 
ing  the  supply  of  steam  to  an  engine. 

til' -ler- rope:  The  rope  running  from 
the  pilot  wheel  to  the  tiller  which  turns 
the  rudder. 

tim'-o-thy  (tlm'-o-thl) :  A  meadow  grass 
for  fodder;  one  to  three  feet  high. 

Tou-jours'  A-mour'  (too-zhpor'  za- 
moor') :  This  French  phrase  is  trans 
lated  in  the  English  title  ("Love  is 
Always  Here"). 

trag'-e-dy  (traj'-e'-dl) :  A  play  of  a 
serious  or  sorrowful  character;  a  dread 
ful  disaster. 

tram-car:    Street-car. 

turn '-bier:  A  toy  representing  a  fat 
person,  sitting  with  crossed  legs.  The 
base  of  the  figure  is  rounded  so  as  to 
rock  at  a  touch. 

tus'-sock  (tus'-uk) :  A  clump  or  hillock 
of  grass  or  sedge. 

two-bits:    Twenty-five  cents. 

un-ac-cel'-er-at-ed  (un-ak-sel'-€r-at- 
gd):  Unhastened,  not  quickened. 

u-nan'-i-mous  (u-nan'-I-mus) :  With 
out  dissent;  being  of  one  mind,  agree 
ing. 

un'-du-lat-ing  (un'-d_u-lat-Jng) :  Hav 
ing  a  wave-like  motion. 


388 


GLOSSARY 


u'-ni-son  (u'-nl-sim) :  Harmony,  agree 
ment. 

un-pre-med'-i-tat-ed  (un-prS-me'd'-I- 
tat-Sd):  Not  thought  out  or  resolved 
beforehand. 

un-sa'-vor-y  (un-sa'-ver-I) :  Unpleas 
ant  to  the  taste  or  smell. 

un-scathed'  (un-skatfed') :  Unharmed. 


val'-ance  (val'-rfns) :  A  curtain,  or  cur 
tains  for  a  bed. 

Ven-dome'  (vaN-dom')'  A  square  in 
Paris  named  after  an  early  eighteenth- 
century  French  general. 

ven'-om-ous  (ven'-um-us) :  Poisonous; 
harmful. 

vi'-forant  (vJ'-brdnt):  Resounding, 
thrilling. 

vi-ca'-ri-ous-ly  (vi-ka'-rl-us-U) :  By  way 
of  acting  or  suffering  for  another. 

vic'-i-nage  (vls'-i-naj) :  Neighborhood, 
vicinity. 

vin-dic'-tive  (vin-dlk'-tlv) :  Inclined 
toward  revenge  or  retaliation. 

vis'-age  (vlz'-dj) :  Countenance,  face. 

Yi-tu'-per-ate  (vi-tu'-per-at) :  To 
abuse  in  words;  berate. 


vol'-u-bly     (vol'-u-bli) :   Glibly,     talka- 

tively. 
vol'-un-ta-ry   (vol'-itn-ta-ri) :    Of    one's 

own  free  will  or  suggestion. 
vul-ner-a-bil'-i-ty     (vul-ner-d-bll'-l-tf) : 

Liability    to    injury    or    death    from 

wounds. 

Walter    (Sir):    The   Scotch  novelist  Sir 

Walter  Scott,   the   author  of   Quentin 

Durward. 
wam'-pum    (wom'-p£m;  worn'):    Shells 

or  beads  used  by  the  Indians  as  money. 
wan  (won):    Pallid,  pale. 
wea'-zened      (we'-z'n'd):     Hard,      dry, 

withered. 
Wells -Far' -go:  An  express  company  that 

began  its  operations  in  the  days  of  the 

stage  coach 
White     Leg'-horn:     A     small,     active 

breed   of   chickens   with   large   combs; 

good  layers. 
Wy'-an-dot  (wl'-dn-dot) :   An  American 

breed  of  medium-sized,  variously  col 
ored  chickens. 

yawl  (yol) :    The  steamer's  boat,  usually 
carrying  from  four  to  six  oarsmen. 


STORY,  ESSAY,  AND  VERSE 

AN  ATLANTIC  ANTHOLOGY  FOR 
CLASSES  IN  LITERATURE 


Edited  by 
CHARLES  SWAIN  THOMAS  and  HARRY  GILBERT  PAUL 

This  volume  of  literature  selected  from  the  Atlantic 
Monthly  was  chosen  especially  to  fit  the  needs  of  senior 
high  school  and  junior  college  classes.  Those  who  are 
preparing  candidates  for  the  College  Entrance  Exam 
inations  will  find  here,  in  compact  form,  material  suffi 
cient  to  cover  the  requirements  in  the  short  story  and 
the  essay,  and  material  that  splendidly  represents 
the  best  in  modern  writing.  It  is  with  such  books  as 
this  that  the  teacher  can  best  secure  the  spontaneous 
and  individual  reactions  that  are  necessary  to  the  devel 
opment  of  that  selective  and  critical  power  which  is 
essential  to  the  study  of  literature. 

The  stories  in  this  volume  are  varied  in  interest  and 
in  type:  they  range  frorq.  the  tragedy  of  Sir  Gilbert 
Parker's  Three  Commandments  in  the  Vulgar  Tongue  to 
the  inimitable  humor  of  Mark  Twain's  The  Canvasser's 
Tale;  they  include  the  conventional  short  story,  the 
sketch,  and  the  informal  narrative.  Atlantic  essays 
have  a  charm  and  a  fame  of  their  own ;  those  included  in 
Story,  Essay,  and  Verse  are  true  to  the  Atlantic  tradition 
of  grace  and  excellence.  The  poetry  in  this  volume 
includes  Browning's  Prospice,  and  Chester  Firkins'  On 
the  Subway  Express.  Its  facets  are  many,  and  each  is 
perfectly  cut.  As  a  book  to  be  put  in  the  hands  of 
students  and  turned  to  throughout  the  year,  Story, 
Essay,  and  Verse  will  prove  an  ever-effective  stimulus 
to  the  enthusiasm  and  effort  of  the  class. 

12mo,  bound  in  cloth.     Price  $1.50 


THE  ATLANTIC  BOOK  OF 
MODERN  PLAYS 

Edited  by  STERLING  ANDRTJS  LEONARD  of  the  University 
of  Wisconsin 

In  high  schools  and  colleges  throughout  the  country 
there  is  an  urgent  need  for  just  such  a  collection  as  this 
—  short  modern  plays  chosen  for  their  literary  and 
dramatic  power,  appropriate  for  class-study,  carefully 
edited,  and  assembled  in  an  attractive  and  inexpensive 
volume. 

Community  Theatres  and  Little  Theatres  all  over  the 
country  attest  the  people's  growing  appreciation  of  dra 
matic  art,  and  more  and  more  high  schools,  as  well  as 
colleges,  are  introducing  the  study  of  modern  drama  into 
their  curricula.  Under  these  circumstances,  the  Atlantic 
Book  of  Modern  Plays  comes  as  a  peculiarly  appropriate 
offering  for  those  who  intend  most  adequately  to  satisfy 
the  demands  of  progressive  education. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  OF  BUTTER- 

BIGGENS 

SPREADING  THE  NEWS 

THE  BEGGAR  AND  THE  KING 

TIDES       ....... 

ILE 

CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GATE 
CAMPBELL  OF  KILMHOR     . 

THE  SUN 

THE  KNAVE  OF  HEARTS    . 
FAME  AND  THE  POET   . 
GETTYSBURG 

LoNESOME-LlKE          .... 

RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA 

THE  LAND  OF  HEART'S  DESIRE 

THE  RIDING  TO  LITHEND  . 


Harold  Chapin 
Lady  Augusta  Gregory 
William  Parkhurst 
George  Middleton 
Eugene  O'Neill 
Beulah  Marie  Dix 
J.  A.  Ferguson 
John  Galsworthy 
Louise  Saunders 
Lord  Dunsany 
Percy  MacKaye 
Harold  Brighouse 
John  M.  Synge 
William  Butler  Yeats 
Gordon  Bottomley 


12mo,  bound  in  cloth.     Price  $1.50 


The  Voice  of  Science  in 
Nineteenth-Century  Literature 

A  Selection  from  the  Works  of  Victorian  Scientists, 

Critics,  and  Poets,  Edited  by  ROBERT  E.  ROGERS  and 

HENRY  G.  PEARSON  of  the  Massachusetts  Institute  of 

Technology. 

The  English  Leaflet  (the  official  publication  of  the 
New  England  Association  of  Teachers  of  English)  in  its 
May  number  said  of  this  volume: 

The  reactions  of  men  of  letters  to  the  challenge  of  science,  in 
an  age  significant  both  for  literature  and  for  science.  The  col 
lection  is  worthy  of  study  in  all  technical  universities  and  in 
liberal  colleges  where  survey  courses  in  English  literature  are 
offered. 

THE  VOICE  OF  SCIENCE  IN 
NINETEENTH-CENTURY  LITERATURE 

includes  selections  from  all  the  leading  men  of  the  cen 
tury  —  Arnold,  Ruskin,  Foster,  Huxley,  Tyndall,  Ten 
nyson,  Browning,  Meredith,  Hardy,  Emerson,  Steven 
son,  and  others. 

Professor  Henry  G.  Pearson,  Head  of  the  Department 
of  English  and  History  at  the  Institute,  in  his  introduc 
tion  to  this  volume  defines  its  purpose: 

Broadly  stated,  the  central  theme  of  the  book  is  man's  place 
in  the  universe,  considered  in  the  light  of  the  new  knowledge  and 
speculation  as  to  his  origin  and  destiny  which  the  scientific  study 
of  the  nineteenth  century  has  invoked.  ...  In  some  cases  the 
background  is  the  group  of  ideas  roughly  classed  under  the  word 
evolution;  in  others  it  is  some  characteristic  phase  of  religious 
feeling  or  ethical  or  theological  thought.  .  .  . 

What  should  be  emphasized  on  the  side  of  history  is  not  the 
marshaling  of  fact,  of  things  done;  but  the  war  of  thought  in  one 
field  or  another. 

It  is  the  man  of  genius  speaking  with  authority  to  those  of 
his  own  time  who  is  here  presented.  In  such  a  setting  his  voice 
has  still  its  ancient  power. 

Modern  teaching  demands  that  students  shall  be 
aroused  to  earnest  and  original  thinking.  This  collec 
tion  provides  the  necessary  "initial  impulse"  of  interest 
and  the  synthesis  of  fact  and  speculation  which  stimu 
late  individual  gropings  toward  the  truth.  The  class 
reaction  to  such  a  text  is  quick  and  creative. 

Circulars,  giving  table  of  contents,  sent  on  request. 

12mo,  bound  in  cloth.     Price  $2.00 


ATLANTIC  READINGS 

Interesting  and  Interpretative  Literature  in  Inexpensive 
Form  for  School  and  College  Classes 

1.  The  Lie By  Mary  Antin 

The  story  of  a  small  Jewish  immigrant's  intense  loyalty 
to  America. 

2.  Ruggs— R.O.T.C.      .     .     By  William  Addleman  Ganoe 

An  instructive  and  humorous  story  of  the  military 
training  camp. 

3.  Jungle  Night By  William  Beebe 

A  descriptive  essay  of  unusual  beauty. 

4.  An  Englishwoman's 

Message By  Mrs.  A.  Burnett-Smith 

From  a  loyal  Englishwoman  in  war  time. 

5.  A  Father  to  His  Freshman  Son 
A  Father  to  His  Graduate  Girl 

By  Edward  Sanford  Martin 
Intimate  messages  from  a  wise  and  sympathetic  father. 

6.  A  Port  Said  Miscellany  .      ...    By  William  McFee 

A  personal  record  of  interesting  experiences  at  the  Port. 

7.  Education :  The  Mastery  of  the  Arts  of  Life 

By  Arthur  E.  Morgan 

An  essay  by  a  gifted  civil  engineer,  whose  views  of 
education  are  unhampered  by  academic  tradition. 

8.  Intensive  Living          ...     By  Cornelia  A.  P.  Comer 

Homely  philosophies  discussed  in  dialogue  form. 

9.  The  Preliminaries  By  Cornelia  A.  P.  Comer 

An  unusual  short-story,  with  a  keen  critical  comment 
by  Josiah  Royce. 

10.  The  Moral  Equivalent  of  War   .     .     By  William  James 

An  essay  by  America's  greatest  philosopher. 

11.  The  Study  of  Poetry By  Matthew  Arnold 

A  famous  essay  by  one  of  the  world's  greatest  literary 
critics. 

12.  Books By  Arthur  C.  Benson 

The  author  writes  charmingly  of  a  subject  that  he  loves. 

13.  On  Composition By  Lafcadio  Hearn 

An  illuminating  essay  on  the  art  of  writing. 

14.  The  Basic  Problem  of  Democracy     By  Walter  Lippmann 

A  significant  analysis  of  the  perversion  of  news  in  the 
public  press. 

15.  The  Pilgrims  of  Plymouth     .      .   By  Henry  Cabot  Lodge 

The   Pilgrim   Tercentenary   Oration  —  by   a   trained 
historian. 

(Each  15  cents,  except  number  15,  which  is  25  cents) 


We  are  constantly  adding  to  this  series 


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